Bring Back Some Browncoats to Shake Us Up a Bit
by foojules
Summary: Downton Abbey. Yorkshire, England. Or not! The planet called Earth by its inhabitants is really Lab K2116: a vast social experiment built by Blue Sun. Serenity crash-lands on the Downton green and we find that K2116's planetary defenses have been lowered, leaving them ripe for the Reavers' picking. Capt. Mal Reynolds unwillingly takes on a rather large group of refugees.
1. Chapter 1: Crash!

_AN: So this idea came to me at insomnia o'clock the other night and it just might collapse under its own weight... but I couldn't NOT try it! In the Downton-verse, we're in S2, 1916 or 1917 - before Downton Abbey was set up as a convalescent hospital. As for Whedon-verse, no fixed time... but well before the events of _Serenity_._

_I haven't watched _Firefly _or _Serenity _in a while, so apologies for any lapses in detail._

* * *

Something was wrong.

Of course, something or other was _always _wrong with this bucket of bolts: Captain Malcolm Reynolds had only the vaguest idea how Kaylee managed to keep the thing spaceworthy, and he was happy to delegate that responsibility. But this time, something was obviously catastrophically, cataclysmically, disastrously wrong.

He supposed the engine going dead was his first clue. "Kaylee!" He bellowed into the radio, from the bridge.

"On it, boss!" her voice chirped back.

Being dead in the water made him nervous, especially out here. They were in the boondocks; past the boondocks, really. Easy pickings for bandits. Or Reavers. He didn't know which was worse.

His next indication that something was amiss came a couple hours later when they drifted into the gravitational pull of a nearby planet. "Should we try to land?" Wash asked him.

"Maybe. Where are we, anyway?"

His pilot pulled up the nav charts and frowned. "What the -" he muttered. "I must be looking in the wrong... Uh, Mal? this isn't charted as a planet."

Mal looked out the porthole at the body they were orbiting: oceans, land, blue and green, dotted with fluffy white clouds. "Surely does look like a planet. A habitable one, too."

"Yeah, I know, Mal. What I'm saying is, it's not marked anywhere on here." Wash looked again. "According to this, it doesn't exist."

The ship suddenly quaked to life, and Mal's radio crackled. "I think I got it!" Kaylee shouted triumphantly. "We're gonna have to put down somewhere soon, though. I need to get at the compressor outside."

"Copy that," Mal responded. He raised his eyebrows at Wash. "Well," he said, "I guess we're gonna have to land on this rock... whether it exists or not."

-ooo-

The landing had been rough, to say the least. Kaylee must've gotten the engine running with little more than string and prayers, because it had abruptly gone out again soon after reentry. Wash felt lucky to have been able to find an open field in which to crash - er, put down. Of course, his own superior piloting skills had played no small part.

They appeared to have landed on the green of a large manor house, surrounded by outbuildings and manicured gardens. "Wow," Zoe Washburne marveled, peeking out the window. "This looks pretty built up for being on a planet in the ass-end of space."

"Not even a planet," Wash agreed.

"Wonder how this got out here," his wife mused. "Some minor _shan zhu_ setting up his own fiefdom outside Alliance reach? Doesn't make sense."

"The whole planet looked pretty well populated, what I could see of it on the trip in," Mal said, reentering the bridge in time to catch Zoe's words. "But that ain't our concern. What is our concern is getting _Serenity _fixed and getting the hell out of here."

"Ah, yeah, Sir," Zoe said, taking another look out the porthole. "Along with the guys coming out to greet us. They look... curious about why we're in the middle of their field."

-ooo-

Mal, Zoe and Jayne strode down the gangway toward their welcoming party, hands free but well away from their weapons. No call to antagonize anyone right off.

"Afternoon," Mal greeted the one who appeared to be their leader, a very upright silver-haired gentleman in a tailcoat and a seemingly permanent scowl. He was eyeing Zoe as if she were a zoo animal. The other two, a middle-aged man who walked with a cane and a younger one in what looked like riding trousers, were taking in the ship wonderingly. "Sorry about - " Mal waved a hand at the scorch marks on the grass - "all this. We'll be fixed up and out of your hair in a jiffy."

The other man had appeared struck dumb, but now he shook himself slightly and drew himself up even more. "Sir," he said, "May I ask - " he stopped, seemingly nonplussed about how to proceed. It didn't last long; the man had poise. "May I ask who you are and why you have landed a - " another pause, with an astonished look at _Serenity _- "what appears to be a very large aeroplane on Lord Grantham's green?"

Mal wondered what kind of planet this was, anyway. Aeroplane? "Captain Malcolm Reynolds," he offered, along with his hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. These are my first mate, Zoe Washburne, and my... my associate, Jayne Cobb." They nodded coolly. "We had a bit of engine trouble, but like I said, as soon as we can get it repaired we'll take right off again."

The man regarded Mal's hand as if it were a scorpion. "I am Carson, butler to the Earl of Grantham," he bit out. "Captain... Reynolds, is it? Lord Grantham asked me to extend an invitation for you and your... crew to join him in his library. Please follow me." He turned on his heel and began to stalk toward the house.

"Now wait just a second," Zoe called out. "Who is this Lord Grantham? And what exactly does he want with us?"

"Easy, Zoe," Mal said in an undertone

"Don't worry," Jayne remarked. "They try anything, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. And my pants leg. And down my boot." He chuckled, absolutely no humor in the sound.

They followed the men into the manor.

-ooo-

Robert Crawley was just about fed up. First he'd been turned into some sort of a... mascot for the army, instead of getting to actually serve his country like a man. And then, just as he was coming to terms with the idea that at least he'd have the comfort of his home to console himself, Mrs. Crawley had started in with her insistence that they give most of it up to a lot of convalescent soldiers. It looked as if that was going to happen with or without his approval. Why, he might as well not even be here, for all anyone listened to him.

And now this. Whatever "this" was: it was truly unprecedented. When they heard the noise, everyone thought this was it: the Germans were invading. Robert experienced a brief shot of excitement: he might not be going to war, but it was jolly well coming to him! But it soon became clear that the authors of the invasion, if that was what it was, were not Germans. He wasn't sure what they were.

The family - including his mother, who had come over for tea - had assembled in the library at the first sign of trouble. Robert sent out three of the few men still on the place (thank God Branson had been about) to see what was what. He hoped very much that he hadn't sent them into peril, while he remained in safety.

It seemed not: the three strangers entered the house peacefully enough. He was a bit taken aback by the appearance of the woman (such clothes!) but tried not to show it. Who knew where these people might be from, or what strange customs they observed? And they were armed, he noted.

"Lord Grantham, I presume?" one of the men greeted him. "Captain Malcolm Reynolds." He introduced Jayne and Zoe. "And that out on your field is my ship. I was just telling your, ah, butler here that we'd be out of your way just as soon as - "

Robert put out his hand for Capt. Reynolds to shake. "No trouble at all, Captain," he told him, though he was not at all sure that was true. "Please allow us to offer whatever assistance you need. We're happy to contribute to the war effort in any way we can."

The man looked mystified, but appreciative. "Well, thank you kindly, sir."

"Can I offer you some tea? My family and I were just - "

"Sir, Sir, your Lordship!" a panicked female voice, along with the patter of running feet outside the door, announced Anna Smith's presence a moment before she appeared, the evening newspaper fluttering in her hand. It hadn't even been ironed. "We've got to run! That ship! They've come here! It's -" she skidded to a halt, taking in the trio of strangers standing in the center of the library. Her eyes nearly doubled in size, and she became so faint that she had to sit down quickly on an upholstered bench near the door.

Bates and Carson made their way over to her: Bates to offer a glass of water and feel Anna's forehead, Carson to take the paper that seemed to have so upset her.

_MASSACRE IN BRIGHTON_, screamed the headline above the fold on the front page.

Carson frowned at the article. "Good God," he murmured, after reading the first paragraph.

"Well, what is it, Carson?" Robert demanded.

The butler began to read aloud. "_Several hundreds of citizens were killed this morning in Brighton after a mysterious aircraft landed without warning in the centre of town and disgorged a mob of barbaric belligerents who proceeded to murder or maim every person they came across, with no regard to age or sex. Most of the hooligans were eventually shot down by the Local Defence Volunteers, but this did not occur before they had quite lain waste to a significant portion of the town_. _They_ - Sir, I don't know if I should continue. It's quite... graphic." He glanced at Cora and Violet, seated on the settee.

Mal stepped forward and took the paper from him, reading through the rest of the story. "_The craft they piloted was motley, covered in what appeared to be skins and belching black smoke_," he mumbled, sending a wide-eyed look toward Zoe and Jayne.

Jayne blew out a breath. "Ohhh, crap."

"Reavers," Zoe whispered.

- to be continued -


	2. Chapter 2: Preparations

_AN: Sorry for the relative lack of action here, but I don't want to rush the set-up! It's coming, I promise... I hope a little cross-universe interaction (and flirtation) will tide you over._

* * *

Silence spooled out into the room, and from deep within the settee Mary Crawley watched the color drain from their guests' faces. They were afraid: no, terrified. It made a cold finger probe her heart, to see such obviously seasoned adventurers spooked like this.

"Good heavens," she piped up finally, just to break the heavy silence. "Reavers. That sounds rather dangerous."

"You don't know the half of it, sister," Jayne muttered.

"All right," Mal said. "Zoe, Jayne, back to the boat on the double. We'll see where Kaylee is with that compressor."

Zoe shot him a look, but the three of them turned and walked out of the library, through the hall and out the front door. No one stopped them.

In the library no one spoke, other than Bates giving quiet encouragement to Anna. She was more or less recovered, but still sat clutching her glass of water.

"I wish someone would tell me what all the fuss is about," the Dowager countess said. "Carson, hand me that paper, if you please."

Carson hesitated. "Madam, if I may, I strongly recommend - "

"Oh, don't be so prim, Carson. I've a strong stomach," Violet retorted, and he obeyed, handing over the paper with a heavy countenance. She skimmed over the parts that had not been read aloud, paling noticeably. "Well, I see why Anna was so discomfited at the thought that this business might have come to Downton," she said, her voice rather fainter than usual. It regained its spirit as she continued, however: "Brighton is quite a journey, though. Even if some of these... miscreants have escaped, they'd hardly come straight here."

"Our guests seemed to think otherwise," Robert said drily.

"Let me read it, Granny," Sybil requested from her place next to Mary.

"Certainly not!" Violet crushed the paper to her bosom. "It is wholly unsuitable for young girls."

Sybil sighed. "Granny, I'm not a young girl, I'm a nurse. I've been in blood up to my elbows before."

"Gracious, Sybil!" Cora gasped, shocked.

"Well, I have. And I think that if we're in danger, we should know what kind of danger we're in!" Sybil stood up, marched across the room and plucked the newspaper from her grandmother's hands. She read the story and sucked in a sharp breath. "My God." Her knees felt suddenly weak: she sat down hard on the ottoman, letting the awful paper fall from nerveless fingers. She glanced up wildly and happened to focus on Branson, standing near the door, his eyes blue beacons of concern.

"Well, we certainly can't just sit here," Cora said after another long silence. "If those people on our green have prior knowledge of these... Reavers, then we will just have to ask them what we should do."

-ooo-

"_T__a made_!" They could hear the swearing from fifty feet away, even though Kaylee was on the opposite side of _Serenity_. Mal and Zoe exchanged glances and headed up the gangway. Jayne detoured around the ship to have a look-see.

"What seems to be the problem, ma'am?" He called up the ladder to the mechanic.

Kaylee jumped a little. "Oh, it's just this piece of _laji _compressor. The pump valve's blown and I know I don't have another one." She pushed her hair out of her face with a greasy hand, leaving a black smear on her forehead, which made Jayne smile. "I meant to restock on parts whenever we made it back to one of the core planets, but we haven't for a while."

"That's a shame," Jayne said. "Well, I don't mean to put more pressure on you, but apparently some Reavers paid a visit somewhere not too far from here this morning."

Kaylee almost fell off the ladder, but slid down it to the ground instead. "_What_?"

"Yup. Killed a whole mess of people before the cavalry managed to shoot 'em down... most of 'em, anyway."

She uttered a profanity so foul it almost made even Jayne blush, hearing it from her adorable mouth. "Were they alone? Are there more coming?"

"Kaylee," Jayne replied grimly, "There're always more Reavers coming."

-ooo-

"We leave as soon as the ship's repaired," Mal was telling Zoe, Wash, and _Serenity_'s passengers. They were assembled in the galley: all except River, who her brother said refused to leave her bunk. "And we hope that incident was an isolated one, but we get ready to flee -" he glanced at Inara, who as usual was sitting with a straight back and the completely composed face of a china doll - "or fight if we have to. But our goal is to light out without gettin' ourselves killed."

Shepherd Book looked at the captain doubtfully. "And we leave the people on the ground to be slaughtered if more Reavers do land."

Mal's mouth tightened. "Now, we don't know that any more will be coming. We don't know _what's _going on. But I've gotta look after my ship and my crew."

Kaylee walked into the galley with Jayne close behind her. "Boss, can I talk to you a minute?" She threw a significant look around the room at the passengers, who took the hint and left. Once the crew had the galley to themselves, Kaylee plopped into a chair and sighed. "We got a little problem with the compressor." She explained the unfortunate shortage of necessary valves.

Mal sat down facing her. "Why am I not even a little bit surprised to hear you say that?" He shook his head. "You do realize time is of the essence here."

"I've been saying we needed to make a trip in to re-up," she reminded him.

"This place looks pretty old-fangled," Mal mused. "Doubt they'd have what we need."

"They got cars," Jayne said. "I saw one when we were out there. Looked like some crazy antique, but they might have some parts we could rig up 'til we can get in to Osiris or somewhere."

Mal's face darkened. "I don't want to owe these people any favors."

Jayne leaned down and pulled a long knife out of one boot top. He reached into his other boot and extracted a small handgun. He laid both weapons on the table. "Favors?" He said. "I think leavin' em with their lives'll be favor enough, if they try to get in our way."

-ooo-

"I'll go," Mary heard herself say. "I'll talk to them." She raised a hand at the simultaneous and vehement objections of her parents and grandmother. "It's all right, I'll take Carson with me. But I think it might be helpful to appeal to their better natures, don't you?"

"I'll go, too," Edith piped up, and Mary threw an annoyed look in her sister's direction. Classic Edith, always the copy-cat. Luckily, Papa nipped that in the bud.

"Certainly not! It's quite enough risk for _one _of my daughters to beard the lion in its den."

"So you'll let me go, then." Mary was pleased: she'd been expecting more resistance.

Ten minutes later she was tramping across the lawn a few paces ahead of Carson and his disapproving scowl, which threatened to topple him over. A wide hatch was open at the back of the ship, so it was quite a simple matter to walk right in.

Simple, that was, until the very large man she'd last seen in the library stepped out in front of them. "Payin' a call on us, sister?"

Mary was momentarily disconcerted, but she rallied quickly and gave the man a brilliant and utterly false smile: the one she'd referred to as her "Season Smile" in the years immediately following her debut. This man might not be a gentleman, but she'd yet to meet anyone of the male sex who couldn't be swayed by her charms. Lady Mary Crawley was a gladiatorial flirt.

"Mr. Cobb, isn't it?" She inquired, cocking her head fetchingly. "I was wondering if you could help me." He raised a skeptical eyebrow, but she smiled all the harder and stepped closer. She was suddenly glad that her tea gown left her arms and half her bosom bare: she could see him looking - odious boor! - but that was all to the good. She had no idea what she was going to say until she said it, but hadn't that often been the case before? "You see," she purred, "My father asked me to invite you and your... commanding officers to dinner tonight. I wondered if you would pass along the message for me." She allowed her gloved hand to just rest on his muscled forearm.

"Wash'll want to come too," Jayne grunted. "He's the first mate's husband."

"Naturally," Mary replied smoothly. "It's settled, then. Seven o'clock." She fluttered her lashes at him once more, turned and sailed down the gangway, Carson in tow.

Jayne stepped over to the hatch to watch her across the lawn, a licentious half-smile on his face.

-ooo-

Tom Branson had fled to the garage soon after the revelation in the library. He wanted to think, and that was difficult while surrounded by Crawleys... especially one Crawley in particular.

Carson had been concerned that the ladies, feeling threatened, would want as many men present as possible. But Branson was able to convince the butler to let him leave by pointing out the wisdom of ensuring that the motors were working properly, in case they were needed in order to escape. Now he sat at his workbench, pondering.

Was he the only one who was even curious about where these strangers had come from? He'd been one of the few people outside when the aircraft landed, and as far as he knew he was the only one to have actually seen it appear. It hadn't flown in low and choppy to crash-land as an aeroplane might, but rather come spiraling out of the clear blue sky, materializing from thin air at an impossible height, then approaching at an impossible speed. Branson, washing down the Renault, had looked up at the terrific noise and seen a dot, then a bird, then a... whatever it was.

He'd not had a chance to fully read the Brighton story, but what he'd heard troubled him. It sounded like the histories he'd read of savages on the American frontier, slicing off children's scalps and carrying women away... except it was _here_, in England, in a seaside resort town. And these savages had dropped from the sky, just like the ship on the Downton green.

"Ahoy, hello?" The voice outside was both female and unfamiliar: not one of the family, but Branson sprang to his feet and ran a hand over his hair anyway. "Anyone home?" A figure entered through the open garage door, shading its eyes against the glare. "Oh! Hi there!"

She was definitely a woman, though she wore coveralls like the ones he had for washing the motor. She gave him a friendly smile. "I'm Kaylee Frye," she said, crossing the garage to him and sticking out her hand. "Ship's mechanic on _Serenity_."

Branson shook the proffered hand, marveling at the surreality of it all. Who _were _these people? "Branson. Tom."

"Well, which is it?" Kaylee asked teasingly. This one was definitely cute enough to flirt with.

"Uh, Tom." He managed a nod.

"Well, Tom, am I right in thinking that you're the mechanical man around this place?" She glanced around. "Seeing as how we're in a room full of tools and parts, and there's a car sitting right there." She laughed merrily at her own joke, showing off a fetching pair of dimples. It was infectious, and Tom couldn't help smiling back.

"Yes, I'm the chauffeur," he told her.

"Oh, shiny. I was wondering if you could help me out," Kaylee said. "I'm looking for a certain valve... I know it's a long shot," she said, in reaction to Tom's raised eyebrow, "but I thought you might have something I'd be able to rig up."

"A car part? For your air-ship? Feel free to have a look." He gestured toward the supply cupboard, which he made sure was kept well stocked.

"Thanks!" She dove into the cupboard.

Tom ambled over to watch. "So you lot are just planning to repair your ship and leave, then," he said casually. There was a sudden pause in the clanking and grating of Kaylee's search. Tom went on. "You'd ask spare parts from us and abandon us to take our chances with the savages."

"What makes you think they'll come here, anyway?" It came out a little too blithe.

"The fact that you do." He leaned against the cupboard's doorframe, very incidentally blocking her path out.

She looked up at him, any trace of her former smile wiped away. "You haven't seen Reavers," she told him soberly. "You don't fight them. You run."

Tom nodded toward the drawer in which she had her hands. "And what you find in there might be the only reason you have the option of running." She looked down, abashed. "You're the only ones with knowledge of these Reavers, yet you won't help us. What kind of people are you, anyway?"

Her chin came up. "Desperate ones," she snapped, closing the drawer and yanking open the next one to rummage through. "You people here, you're pretty high on the hog, with your big house and your gardens and your horses. You haven't been living on the edges of the black for years. You don't know what it's like."

_The black?_ Tom filed that away to wonder about later, but at the moment he felt he needed to correct a few misconceptions. "It's not my house," he told her. "Not my gardens. Not my horses. And I do know what it's like to be desperate."

Kaylee's eyes flicked downward and her hand emerged from the drawer holding something that she immediately squirreled away in one of her larger coverall pockets. "Look," she said. "I don't make the decisions. But if you were to, say, turn up in the cargo bay of _Serenity _after it took off, which I'm pretty sure will be happening later tonight, I don't _think _the cap'n would space you."

Was she saying...? Tom stepped back and shook his head. "No. I'm not leaving without... I'm not just going to slink off and leave everyone."

Kaylee shrugged. "Your funeral."

Tom wondered if he should keep her from going, try to wrest away whatever it was she'd put in her pocket. He was sure he could overpower her, even though she looked wiry. But something in him recoiled at the thought of attacking a woman: he was progressive, but not _that _progressive. But he thought: _Sybil_. If anything were to happen to her...

"What if someone else were to... turn up in the cargo bay?" He wondered. "Someone besides me."

Kaylee's hand drifted to a pocket: the one where she'd hidden the valve. "I'd do my best," she told him. "That's all I can say." She edged past Tom toward the door, turning back just before she walked out. "Mal - Captain Reynolds - he's a good egg," she said. "I think you can count on him to do the right thing."

Now Tom just had to convince Sybil to do the wrong thing.

-ooo-

"But I don't see why I can't go!" Sybil burst out. "It's only in the village." They were in the drawing room, waiting for the dressing gong, but Sybil had caused a minor cloudburst by coming down in her nurse's uniform and announcing that she intended to report for duty that evening at the hospital.

"No one is to leave Downton!" Thundered her father. "Not until we're certain it's safe. Mama, you'd better stay for dinner as well," he told Violet.

"I wouldn't dream of trying to leave," the dowager assured him.

"So I'm just to skip work, without even letting them know why I'm not there," Sybil pouted.

"Sybil, I don't want to hear any more about it." Robert sighed. "Besides, we'll need all hands on deck to deal with our dinner guests."

"Yes, Mary, why _did _you invite them?" Edith asked. "It seems to me we've got quite acquainted enough."

Mary shot her a contemptuous look. "Edith, you'd make a terrible general," she said. "I'm forcing them to meet us on our home turf. I imagine that will make them more amenable."

Cora looked rather alarmed that her daughter had such a head for strategy, but Robert just bemoaned the lack of footmen.

"Really, Papa," Mary said. "I doubt these people will care. I'd be surprised if they'd ever even been served at table in their lives."

Sybil snorted. "I think it's quite strange that you're all worried about what people will _think _at a time like this."

"We must keep up some standards even in such times as these," Robert declared firmly. "Especially in such times."

-ooo-

Mary had made sure she was seated beside Mr. Cobb. The captain was important, there was no doubt, but Jayne was the one to win over. He was definitely the enforcer of the group. Captain Reynolds was between Mama and Edith; no doubt her sister was boring him to tears, but Edith seemed happy enough with the state of affairs. And why not? The man was not bad looking.

Mary shifted her attention to the remaining two strangers. The one they called Wash was next to Granny, poor devil, and she was currently making him smile uncomfortably with some barbed anecdote or other. The woman was the real curiosity, though, with her tea-colored skin and the gun belt slung around her trousered hips. Zoe's eyes flicked sharply around the room, missing nothing. Mary had no doubt that, should danger truly come to Downton, this woman would meet it as fiercely as any man.

All four of the ship's crew seemed rather ill at ease, speaking when spoken to and gazing about awkwardly. Mama had apologized for the frightful lapse in propriety of having the maids serve at table, which sailed right over the heads of their guests. "Poor Mama," Mary remarked to Jayne. "She's terribly downcast at what the war's done to our way of life. But it can't be all bad, can it? Not if it means we have such interesting dinner companions." She smiled demurely at him. Surely he didn't believe she really thought he was a soldier, but she was not going to be the one to break the illusion.

The door burst open before they'd finished the fish course. The kitchen maid barrelled through and over to Carson at the sideboard; the butler immediately went scarlet. "Daisy!" He rumbled. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

Daisy wilted a bit in the face of his indignation, but managed to speak up. "Beg pardon, Mr. Carson," she said, twisting her hands together, "but Thomas - I mean Corporal Barrow - he's downstairs. He's awful shaken up, or he would've come up himself." She went on tiptoe to hiss into the butler's ear, and Mary could not hear what else she said until "...landed in the village!"

That was enough: every person at the table was suddenly on their feet, and it seemed every voice in the room was shouting.

Mal scrabbled for the radio on his hip. "Kaylee? We got trouble coming. Tell me something good."

Kaylee's voice sounded tinnily. "I think it's holding, Boss. We're good to go!"

"Thank Jesus, Mary, and Buddha," Mal muttered. "Wash, go get the ship online. We're blowing this pop-stand ASAP." The pilot hightailed it out.

"But surely you're not going to just abandon us here!" Mary cried. "We'll be killed." She reached out blindly and happened to catch Mr. Cobb's arm, which she held in a death grip, turning to look up into his face. For once there was no artifice behind her eyes: just fear. "Please," she said to him.

Jayne hesitated. He had seven weapons squirreled away in various spots on his anatomy, and he knew that the others were armed too. Getting out of the house would be no problem, if it came down to force. But he had no defense against those melting eyes, those slightly wet lips. "Ahhh, gor_ram_mit," he muttered. "Mal, we can't just leave 'em," he said to his captain.

Mal looked at him as if he were crazy. "Jayne, did I just hear you imply that we should take on a whole mess of refugees?"

Jayne was taken aback. He hadn't thought that far - or at all, really - but he supposed they would have to take along the rest of them too. Oh, well. "Yeah, I think you did," he replied.

Mal swore, at considerable length, in Chinese. Zoe waited for him to finish, then pointed out, "We need to decide pretty quick what we're doing." She thought a moment. "We could probably put 'em in the cargo bay if we have to. There's not much in there right now."

Mal came to a decision: one that would probably get them all killed, he thought. "All right," he said, addressing Robert. "Each person gets one bag. One," he held up a finger. "We meet out at the ship in fifteen minutes. Anybody not there and ready gets left behind." He wondered if the other man had heard him: he was standing frozen, a blank expression on his face. "What are you waiting for, man, an engraved invitation?"

Robert jerked out of his reverie and began giving orders. Carson and Daisy were to corral the downstairs staff; Anna and Ethel would help the girls get ready. "Mama, you and Cora go out to the ship," he instructed. "I'll have Bates and O'Brien pack our things."

The dining room broke into a kaleidoscope of activity. And then, just as quickly, it was empty.

- to be continued -


	3. Chapter 3: Flight

_AN: Finally, some action! And we'll also get some answers (well, sort of) about just what WWI-era England is doing in the middle of the _Firefly_-verse._

_WARNING: _Serenity'_s cargo bay only has so much room, and Downton Abbey has a lot of characters... so some people are going to have to be left behind and/or die. Sorry if a favorite of yours is among them! The violence isn't super-graphic, but there is major character death and it's not pretty. With that in mind, I'm increasing the rating... but if someone isn't mentioned in this chapter, don't give up hope. Most of the named DA characters' fates will be addressed._

* * *

Sybil did not go upstairs to pack. She didn't give a fig for _things_; as soon as she'd heard the captain's pronouncement, one thought pushed all the others out of her mind. She had to go and tell Branson.

She went out to the garage, but it was dark and empty. The thought of knocking on his cottage door gave her a moment's pause. She'd not been there before, and even now it seemed like an intrusion. How silly, she thought. Who else would even think to warn him? Carson had his hands full, as did the rest of the staff, and her father was worried about his own family. Sybil doubted he'd spared a thought for the chauffeur. And she was Branson's friend, even if she couldn't be more; she wouldn't just leave him. So she ran down the short path to the cottage - he was there, she could see the window was lit up - and rapped on the door. He raised his eyebrows questioningly when he saw her.

"Reavers have landed in the village." She said it without preamble. "You've got to come now."

Branson gave a humorless little chuckle. "Come where? To the big house, so we can all die together?"

"The air-ship. They're taking us all."

"So they found their better natures, then," he mused.

"What does that mean?"

"They were going to leave us. Their mechanic told me as much herself. They would've accepted our help and just gone off-I wonder what made them change their minds."

"Well, I'm just glad they have," Sybil said fervently. "Now, come on! We don't have much time. Do you have anything you want to bring?"

"Give me a minute," Branson said, and disappeared into his bedroom. Sybil stepped inside the door, glancing around while trying to look as if she wasn't. The remains of the chauffeur's dinner were still on the table, along with a finger-full tumbler of whiskey and an open book laid face down. Other than that the place was spartan.

Tom went through his cupboard and bureau quickly. There wasn't much he needed: a change of clothes, some toilet articles, a couple of books, his notebook and pencil. He was relieved that he wouldn't have to carry out his plan-correction, that he wouldn't have to _make _a plan-to get Sybil onto _Serenity _by nightfall. He knew she wouldn't leave willingly. Before she'd knocked on his door, he'd been sitting there entertaining wild ideas of tying her up and carrying her onto the ship. Who cared if she hated him? After all, he might be dead.

He emerged from the bedroom carrying his satchel, scooped up the book from the table and stuffed it in, and bolted the whiskey. "All right, I'm ready."

"We'd better hurry." Sybil offered her hand to him, and, surprised, he took it. Together they ran up the path towards the green.

-ooo-

Cpl. Thomas Barrow sat in the servants' hall, smoking. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes wouldn't usually stand for that, of course, but they were running around like headless chickens. Besides, if he'd ever needed a fag, now was the time... and he wasn't going outside, that was certain.

Thomas shuddered at the memory of what had happened in the village. He'd heard about the story in the paper this afternoon-everyone had-but no one thought such things would come to Downton. Until the ship, noisy, ugly, covered in what very much resembled corpses, had landed in the middle of the square and the monsters had descended. They had sharpened teeth. One had almost gotten hold of him, but Thomas had chopped at its arm with the fire-axe and run. He ran to get away, with no thought of the patients or the hospital staff or anyone else. He went on pure survival instinct. At some point, in the middle of the woods, he'd stopped, panting, heart racing. He could still hear the things' inhuman snarls in his mind, but it seemed that he'd outrun them. There was a groundskeeper's shed off to his left: Downton Abbey was not far away. They had strong walls, supplies, hunting rifles. They might be able to wait out this... invasion there.

He'd been taken aback at the sight of another ship on the green, but this one was decidedly less macabre-looking and all seemed tranquil. So he'd gone in and spoken to Daisy and Mrs. Patmore, the story he told making their eyes widen enough to nearly swallow their faces. And now they were all to get into this ship and fly off to who knew where. Well, not him. If those barbarians had ranged all over England, where else might they be? Where would be safe? Thomas was no hero, but Downton seemed more secure to him than some rattletrap flying machine. He'd been in France; he'd seen how easily aeroplanes went down.

Sarah O'Brien came into the servants' hall carrying two suitcases, one rather smaller and plainer than the other. Her face was pale, but the ringlets framing her forehead were as springy as ever. She sat down across from him and reached out her hand; wordlessly, he put a cigarette into it and helped her light it.

"You don't have a valise," she remarked, blowing out a plume of smoke.

"Yeah, well, I didn't feel like sticking around in the village to pack me things," Thomas replied sardonically, "what with the Vikings there laying waste to the place."

"Vikings! Blimey."

"I don't know what they were. They were bloody scary, I'll tell you that much."

Sarah stubbed out her cigarette half-smoked. "Well, I'd best be on. You coming, or are you waiting around to be cooked and eaten?"

Just as the words left her mouth there was a thrumming sound outside, as of some sort of strange engine, and then a mighty crash. Thomas' face went the color of curdled milk.

"That's them," he whispered hoarsely. "That's one of their... motor-things." Everything he'd been thinking before, about staying, about battening down and making a stand, went out the window. "Let's get out of here." He grabbed one of Sarah's suitcases and headed out the door toward the stairs, not looking back to see if she was behind him.

-ooo-

The majority of the family and household staff had made it inside _Serenity _by the time the detachment of Reavers showed up on a phalanx of small hovercraft festooned in body parts. One of them careened into the side of the house and exploded, but that still left more than enough of them to be deadly.

Mal and Wash were on the bridge, Kaylee in the engine room, Jayne and Zoe in the cargo hold with the 'fugees, passengers safely in their bunks and Inara in her shuttle. "Zoe, we good?" Mal barked into his radio, nervously watching the Reavers' progress. They were going for the house and outbuildings first, but sooner or later-probably sooner-they'd notice the nice, juicy Firefly-class transport ship just waiting to be cracked open.

"Negative. Still waiting on some staff and-" a crackle as Zoe consulted with someone-"two of the daughters."

"Well, we can't wait much longer!" Mal paced the bridge, wondering for the tenth time what had possessed him to agree to this. A shipful of refugees from a planet that didn't exist. Was he _trying _to go bankrupt or get thrown in prison? Right now, though, he was just worried about keeping himself and his crew alive. "Two minutes," he snapped into the radio. "Then we're lifting off."

-ooo-

Beryl Patmore rummaged frantically through the back of the cupboard in her room. Where was it... ah. Here: her brother's pistol. It was all she had left of poor Jacky, that and the ability to shoot, which he'd taught her. As it turned out, they might be quite valuable gifts.

She kept the gun cleaned and loaded, not expecting that anyone else would have occasion to be going through her things. So it was the work of a moment to shove it into her bag and head down the back staircase, quite gracefully for a woman of her size. She wavered on the ground-floor landing. No doubt the safe thing was to go directly out to the green, but if she was sure of anything, it was that that featherheaded Daisy would have left the oven on. No call to burn the house down, even if they didn't know when or if they'd be able to come back to it.

Mrs. Patmore had been absorbed in packing, so she hadn't perceived the arrival of the barbarians. As soon as she got downstairs she realized her mistake. The place was in chaos. Any servants unlucky enough to still be there were getting the Reavers' full attention. Screams, mixed with inarticulate growls and snarls, rang through the corridors. Mrs. Patmore had just turned to creep back up to the ground floor and the outside when she heard a familiar voice, terrified but still coherent, from the kitchens.

"Here now, get away!" Daisy Robinson cried uselessly. "Oh, help! Please someone help!"

Mrs. Patmore's mouth tightened and she sighed resignedly. That was Daisy all over, always needing someone to get her out of a scrape. The cook drew the pistol from her bag, cocked it, and tiptoed down the hall to peek around the doorjamb into the kitchen. Daisy was at bay on top of the stove, poking at one of the snarling savages with a broom handle. Mrs. Patmore could see that it was playing with the girl: she wouldn't hold it off much longer.

Beryl didn't trust herself to shoot accurately from that distance, not with her hand shaking like it was. So she tiptoed swiftly into the kitchen behind the Reaver, picking up a cleaver from the worktable, hoping Daisy'd have the presence of mind not to shout and keep her from getting the drop on the thing.

As it happened, the beast became aware of Mrs. Patmore's presence a second before she buried the cleaver blade in its neck. That didn't seem to slow it down much, so she aimed the pistol's barrel up under its jaw-it seemed to be trying to eat her face-and pulled the trigger. Its body fell, bearing her down to the floor, but it did not move again.

"Daisy, you imbecile, RUN!" She bellowed, struggling out from under. Daisy wavered, but Mrs. Patmore locked eyes with her and waved her hand. "I'll be along soon!" Daisy jumped down from the stove and ran.

Mrs. Patmore managed to push the thing's body off and get to her knees. She readied the next pistol shot: from the sound of things, she'd need it.

She'd just stood up when three of the brutes went by, flashing past the kitchen windows. She froze, but it was too late. They'd seen her. They turned as one and advanced unhurriedly through the kitchen door, baring their filed teeth. The screams of the unfortunates their comrades had already caught sounded in her ears.

Beryl Patmore swallowed hard. _God forgive me_, she thought, and put the barrel of the pistol to her temple.

-ooo-

"You're perfectly free to go on ahead," Mary told her sister, who was hovering in her bedroom doorway in a most irritating manner. "Anna's taken your things out to the ship."

"Go out there all by myself with those monsters running about!" Edith scoffed. "Not bloody likely."

Mary closed one bureau drawer and opened another, rooting around inside. Where _was _it? Damn, damn, damn. She'd just had it out the other day-

Just then there was a crash from the ground floor, and Edith gave a little scream. She clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes big as saucers, and turned to slam the door shut.

"Shut up, for God's sake!" Mary hissed. "You're going to get us killed." Inside the drawer, her hand closed on the item she was looking for. Thank goodness. She brought it out and put it in her reticule. "All right. Now, we're going to have to be sneaky."

Mary opened the door a crack and put her eye to it: the hallway still looked clear. She and Edith tiptoed out. Edith started toward the back stairs, but Mary motioned frantically toward the grand staircase. "The front door's closer to the ship!" She whispered.

"But-" Edith began; then she seemed to give up, shrugging and following her elder sister. They crept down the stairs, sticking close to the shadows near the wall, and into the main hall. There were footsteps and voices-barely recognizable as human, certainly not as speech-coming from the direction of the drawing room. Mary spared a thought for the tragedy of it all: their home, _her _home, being ransacked by savages-but couldn't let it wash over her. Not yet.

The front door was closed, which Mary took as a good sign: it meant the Reavers had probably come in from downstairs or the back, and the lawn wouldn't be crawling with them. She edged the door open just enough for her and Edith to slip through it, and closed it quietly behind them. They could see the ship up ahead, dark except for a faint yellow glow coming out of its back hatchway. They trotted swiftly over the gravel drive to the lawn.

They were halfway across the green when two things happened: they heard snarls from behind, and the ship's hatch began to close.

"Run!" Mary yelled. And then she took her own advice.

They weren't going to make it, she thought. They weren't fast enough. These horrid clothes. Shoes that were never intended for walking, let alone sprinting to escape carnivorous man-beasts. The ship seemed to recede from her with each step, the wedge of yellow light getting inexorably smaller. She could see people inside, gesturing at her, their mouths moving. She caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper's lips pressed into a worried line.

And then she was there. Hands grasped her wrists, her arms, pulling her in. She breathed a ragged sigh of relief; then turned around just in time to see Edith fall, thirty feet behind.

"Edith!" Mary cried, reaching out into the night. "No!" The ship's vibration got more intense and it rose abruptly; she looked wildly out at the receding ground. "Go back!" She screamed. "We have to go back!" The terror on Edith's face as that... thing had pulled her down: if Mary lived to be a hundred, she'd never be able to forget it.

Mary had fallen to her knees, but now she got up and ran towards the closing hatch door, to do she knew not what. Jump out? Strong arms grabbed her from behind and held her, pinning her arms to her sides. Jayne's voice sounded in her ear, regretful but firm. "She's gone," it said. "She's gone." Mary screamed again, struggling futilely.

"We can't leave her!" She cried, but it was no good; the door rumbled closed, the ship continued to rise. Mary collapsed in defeat. "Edith," she sobbed. "Oh, no, Edith."

"I'm sorry." Jayne released her and she fell to the floor. She wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to get up.

-ooo-

_Serenity _kept rising, longer than any of its new passengers would have thought was possible, and then they felt her shift into forward movement. After a while the ride smoothed out. Though at first the noise was terrific, one soon grew accustomed to the whoosh and whir, to having to raise one's voice to be heard.

Not that anyone was talking much. The Crawleys and their servants huddled in small groups, still traumatized from their narrow escape. No one sat down except Mary, who remained collapsed near the airlock, and Sybil, who had hurried over to tend to her sister. People started to look around, noting who was there... and who was not.

Cora and Robert had made it, along with the valet and lady's maid. Violet and Mary and Sybil were here, and Branson. Many of the servants, especially the under-kitchen maids and hall boys who had been downstairs or the outdoor staff who were outside at the time of the incursion, had not been so lucky. One of the housemaids had been on her evening off, and one other had been left behind, but Anna and Ethel were present. Thomas-Cpl. Barrow-skulked along the edges of the room, clearly wishing for a cigarette. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had begun to busy themselves organizing the servants when Daisy, the lone representative of the kitchen staff, suddenly spoke up.

"Mrs. Patmore!" She cried. "Is Mrs. Patmore here?"

Everyone looked around, as if the cook would materialize to heap noisy abuse on the kitchen maid for daring to suggest she hadn't made it.

"She's got to be," Daisy said, though now she didn't sound so sure. "She saved me from that thing-" Tears spilled from her eyes as she looked around fruitlessly, and Mrs. Hughes trotted over to put an arm around the poor girl.

"Here now," she soothed, sitting the maid down and giving her a starched handkerchief.

Mal's boots clanked on the catwalk ladder from the upper level, a distraction from the sad scene. "I think we're clear, Zoe," he called down. "They didn't even make a feint at us."

"We weren't chased?" Mrs. Hughes wondered, puzzled. "I wonder why not."

"Would you go running after a snack, when there's an all-you-can-eat buffet down there on the ground?" Zoe rejoined, and the housekeeper-the _former _housekeeper-blanched.

A lithe girl burst through the door from the infirmary. She skidded to a halt, long hair flying, when she saw the people standing there. Every head snapped toward her.

River Tam drifted farther into the compartment, gazing around at the refugees. "Rats," she said dreamily. "Hello, rats. Welcome."

Robert drew himself up. "I beg your pardon!"

"Don't mind River, she's just our resident crazy," Jayne said, twirling a finger around his ear.

River scoffed. "Shows what you know. Walking on a planet that doesn't even exist... now, that's crazy."

Mal gave the girl a sharp look. That sounded familiar. "River, what're you talking about? You got some kind of information about this place in your little... memory bank?"

"Single-blind study," River said, in that toneless way she had. "Blue hands built back Earth-that-was. Do it over. See what went wrong. Lab rats don't know they're rats."

_Serenity_'s crew members exchanged glances. "But why wasn't the planet ever attacked before?" Wondered Zoe.

"Planetary defenses. Impenetrable shields. Nothing gets in or out unless it's theirs."

"Then how'd we get in? How did the Reavers?"

She shrugged. "Shields were lowered."

Mal stepped closer to River. "Lowered... but why?"

"Expensive. Maybe the grant was pulled. Maybe funding was cut. Pull the plug." She gave him a brilliant, utterly insane smile. "Let in the exterminators."

- to be continued -

* * *

_AN (#2): I know! I know! I'm sorry. I actually really like Edith and Mrs. Patmore, but it seemed unrealistic to have all the named characters who happened to be at Downton make it, or all of the upstairs or all of the downstairs people. I hope any Edith (or Beryl) stans reading this won't give up on it in disgust._


	4. Chapter 4: Paris in June

_Serenity_,2517

Mary sat on a packing case, staring at nothing. Everyone else had bedded down as best they could, but she would not sleep tonight. Every time she closed her eyes, Edith was all she could see.

She considered herself a reasonably resilient person. She'd gone through lots of traumatic things in her life. The drowning of her de facto fiance. Having to dispose of the corpse of the man who'd just deflowered her. Falling in love and losing that love first to her own vanity and then, if not to the trenches, to another woman. Contemplating marriage to a man she most definitely did not love, and wasn't sure whether she even trusted. All of that had bruised her heart and her pride, but had not broken either of them. But nothing compared to what she had experienced tonight. Literally running for her life; leaving behind her home and everything she knew; throwing her own sister into the jaws of the beast.

_It was all her fault_. If _she _hadn't delayed, if she'd gone to the ship when Anna did, Edith would have been with them and she still would be now. She wouldn't be dead, or going through God knew what tortures back there on the ground.

Mary heard what the others were saying - that they were flying up among the stars, that it was not 1917 but rather several centuries into the future - but it all sounded like a fantastic story to her, as if she'd fallen into one of the science-fiction novels that Granny liked to pretend she didn't read. Mary still believed that in just a few minutes she'd wake up, go down to breakfast and either coolly ignore or bait her sister, as usual. It was one of life's small pleasures - thin enough on the ground these days - to see Edith's face go red with suppressed fury when all Mary had done was make an idle comment.

Traitorous tears sprang to her eyes, damn them. She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief and instead her hand encountered something hard and smooth and rectangular: the object that Edith had died so that she could have. She closed her fingers around it and brought it out. And then she could no longer hold back her sobs, because she was quite sure that the photograph in the frame she held was the last she would ever see of Matthew Crawley.

-ooo-

France, five days later: June 24, 1917

Communication was spotty in the trenches, and they were in hell anyway, so the gravity of the situation was not immediately clear to Captain Matthew Crawley and his soldier-servant, Private William Mason. It wasn't until they arrived in Paris for four days' leave that Matthew even heard about this very odd invasion. The papers were full of it, the newsboys bawling the headlines in French as he passed them on his way out of the train station. Startled, he bought a copy of the English-language daily and stopped at a cafe to read it, while William went on ahead to take their things to the barracks.

The attacks were still sporadic: the savages, as the paper called them, had been making small sorties into villages and small cities, fairly sparsely populated areas. Perhaps they suspected a trap. Based on reports of their behavior (and there were few enough of those; they did not tend to leave many survivors), it didn't sound as if the brutes were capable of coordination or even much conscious thought. However, they were apparently organized enough to pilot their air-ships and engage in some rudimentary form of cooperation, as well as kill anyone they encountered in such gruesome fashion that the paper had to omit many details.

Matthew found a letter from Lavinia waiting for him at headquarters. He tore it open eagerly once he reached his room, where William was hanging up his clothes. It contained extremely upsetting news: Downton village sacked, the great house empty, family and servants vanished or dead. No news of his mother, or of anyone else for that matter, though Lavinia had had the story at third hand herself. He paled, unable to read further, and sat down heavily on the bed. He groped in his pocket for the small stuffed dog he always carried with him. _And such good luck! _Oh, God, where was she?

"Are you all right, sir?" William asked, his wide honest face puckering in concern.

"Quite, William, thank you," Matthew replied faintly. "There's been..." he hesitated. Downton was William's home too. He had people he cared about there: he and that little kitchen maid were sweethearts, and his father's farm was nearby. Matthew chose his next words carefully. "Something's happened at Downton."

William's eyebrows traveled halfway up his forehead. "Oh?" He'd seen the paper-sellers hawking lurid tales of carnage as well as Matthew had on their way here, but plainly he had not yet put two and two together.

Matthew told him the letter's import, watching his face grow serious. "What about Miss Swire?" William asked, nodding toward the stationery in Capt. Crawley's hands. "Is she safe?"

Just like William to worry about his master's fiancee before his own sweetheart, Matthew thought, feeling a twinge of guilt that he hadn't really done so. At least, he hadn't felt the rush of panic on Lavinia's behalf that he had for Mary. The Swires were safe enough, Matthew found when he read the rest of the letter. She wrote that no attacks had occurred in London as yet, but that there was a curfew in place and hardly anyone left their homes unless they had to. Rumors were rife, though, carried between drawing rooms by servants and the more intrepid of the society ladies. It was a trick of the Germans, people were saying. Or the savages were deserters who'd been twisted by their experiences in the trenches; or they were soldiers, driven to madness by some terrible combination of chemicals. _Take care of yourself, Matthew_, Lavinia ended the letter. _I will pray for you, as I hope you'll do for me._

"What do we do, sir?" William asked.

Thoughts wheeled crazily through Matthew's brain. What he _wanted _to do was tear off across France and the Channel and catch a train, hire a motor, whatever he had to do to get to Downton. Judging by Lavinia's letter, though, there were no answers to be had that way, and such a course of action would certainly get him court-martialed. "What can we do?" He said, his voice stronger than he felt. "We're back at the front in four days' time. Whatever _this _may be, we've still got a war to fight." He reached for his uniform jacket, which he'd draped over a chair upon coming in. "I _will _wire Ripon, though. See if I can't get to the bottom of it."

-ooo-

_Serenity_, 2517 (Day 2)

Mal sat before the console on the bridge, almost unable to believe what he'd just read in the files River had winkled out of the network. It seemed that world-scale, classified experiments were not such rare things, not when you were a star-system-wide conglomerate with unlimited funds. The Alliance had mostly conducted such research to determine how different conditions affected relatively basic lifeforms, but vast multidisciplinary studies using human subjects, like this one, were not unheard of.

The funds were evidently not _quite _unlimited, though, and this looked like a classic example of the soft sciences getting the short end of the stick. What was really churning Mal's gut right now were the records of the procedure Blue Sun had used to neutralize past research environments. First the shutdown of the defense network - leading to open season on whatever was down there - and extraction of Alliance personnel; then a short fallow period to allow as many vermin as possible to swarm over the corpse; and finally, a series of strategic nuclear strikes to wipe out predators and prey alike. It was perfectly cold and efficient.

If Earth-that-was 2.0 went anything like this, it looked like his refugees were going to have to find themselves a permanent home somewhere else. Or more likely, _Mal _was going to have to find them a home somewhere else. He rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept much in the last couple of days, and he needed to rest, to think. But first he had to bring the earl - what was his name, Robert? - up to speed.

He stood up and strode briskly down the stairwell and through the cargo bay. The Crawley family sat in a rough circle, looking as if they should be drinking tea with pinkies up; most of the servants were standing off to the side or at work rearranging things. "Hey, Rob - can I talk to you a sec?" Mal called, beckoning the man over.

Lord Grantham bristled at the informality, but let it pass without comment and followed the captain into the infirmary. Simon Tam was in there, inventorying his dwindling stock of medical supplies, but there wasn't anything Mal had to say that he couldn't hear. Mal waited for the hatch to close behind them before he told Robert what he'd found out.

The lord took it calmly, though his face went a little gray. "You say nothing can survive these bombs," he said. Mal shook his head. "So... we will be the only ones left from our world, then."

"Well, the Alliance - that's the government - they'll send transports for their researchers and staff and whatnot. Some of the research subjects might be able to sneak onto those." Mal thought about the last time he'd been in a Blue Sun facility. "You're most likely safer than any of those people are, though."

"My God," Robert said softly. "What will we do?"

"Find somewhere else to live," Simon piped up, in that measured voice of his. "Adapt. Plenty of people have had to."

Robert looked aghast at that, but he seemed to have respect for Simon - snooty calling to snooty, Mal thought sardonically - and he didn't bluster at him. Mal put a hand on the earl's shoulder, trying to buck him up a bit. "Don't worry," he told him. "There's plenty of nooks and crannies in the 'verse for a few transplants to hide in. You could probably even set yourselves up pretty nicely, you play your cards right."

"Hide?" Robert's voice was faint. He drew himself up, though, nerving himself to go back into the cargo bay and impart this disturbing news to the people in his charge. "Oh," he said to Mal in a firmer tone, as something seemed to occur to him. "I wanted to speak with you about the... lodging arrangements. They won't do at all."

Mal kept from rolling his eyes with admirable restraint, he thought. "Well, we've got limited options here," he said. "What's wrong with 'em?"

Robert looked at Mal like he was feeble-minded. "What's _not _wrong with them?" he exclaimed. "Men and women, family and servants, all sleeping cheek by jowl in the same room? It's quite irregular."

"Well, it's a pretty big room." Mal wanted to walk the line between truth and tact. The poor man had just lost his whole world, not to mention his daughter. "We could set up some kind of partitions. At least give people a little privacy."

Robert's face reddened. "Partitions! My daughters' honor is at stake! And you talk of... partitions! You're telling me you've got no private quarters available at all."

Mal did not mention his belief that life trumped honor in most situations: particularly the kind of honor this man seemed to be talking about. "Look, Rob. I've got a few free passenger cabins. I can offer you those." He held up a hand when Robert opened his mouth. "But I'm not just gonna hand 'em to your family. You're all going to draw lots: servants, everyone. We're going to do this my way, and there's no aristocracy on this ship, you got it?"

Robert's brows drew in gloweringly, but he nodded. "I suppose that will be acceptable, along with partitions in the... cargo bay." He started to turn away, but then hesitated. "Sir, I thank you. For saving my life, and those of my family and employees. I owe you a great debt."

"You owe me nothing," Mal said, "except makin' the effort to get your people off my ship as quickly as possible."

The ghost of a smile touched Robert's face. "Duly noted," he said, and turned to leave the room.

-o-

"I have to admit, I'm completely at sea here," Tom said, looking doubtfully into the intricate assemblage of parts. "I've never seen an engine anything like this."

"I wouldn't expect you to know anything right off the bat." Kaylee grinned at him. "But it's all right. I'll teach you, and you'll learn." Her smile dimmed a little. "You'll have to." The mechanic evidently assumed the refugees' forced emigration was permanent: she didn't seem to view returning them to England as a viable option. She cheered up again quickly, though. "It'll be kinda nice to have an assistant for a little while! Keeping up this bucket of bolts could easily be a two-man job."

Tom raised an eyebrow. There was only one man here, as far as he could tell. This world - this _life _- was definitely going to take some getting used to. But it was exciting as well: women who behaved like men, a decided relaxing of class barriers. He wondered what Sybil - _Lady _Sybil - thought about it all.

Kaylee was looking at him sympathetically. "I really wanna help you out as much as I can," she explained. "It's gotta be just... I can't even imagine, having everything you care about just swept away like that."

"Not quite everything," Tom muttered. Before Kaylee could ask what he meant by that, he went on to confirm something he was curious about: "So there's no class hierarchy at all here?"

"Not on the ship. We do follow chain of command, though. We're not complete anarchists." She put out her hand. "Spanner." He found a tool that looked familiar and handed it to her. "Heyyy, you got the right one! We'll make a mechanic out of you yet."

"But your officers have earned leadership," Branson pressed. "They weren't born to it."

"Ain't that the truth." Kaylee began working on a stubborn bolt. "It's not like there's no class system, though," she said. "Worldside, you can always tell who's got the coin and who doesn't."

Tom chuckled mirthlessly. "So Lord Grantham should be able to find a place for his family to live that makes him comfortable."

"If they'll let him. Gorrammit!" The bolt wouldn't turn. She let loose with a stream of Chinese that didn't sound at all polite. "I don't know about the policies - urgh - on worlds accepting refugees - unh - from research experiments - got it!"

Tom didn't have much time to think on the strange situation of the Crawleys being supplicants of an alien government, because they were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor, Simon. He was delivering the message that Robert had requested Branson return to the hold to assist with the setting up of temporary living quarters, "if he was quite free."

"I suppose so," Tom answered. "I'm certainly not much help here as yet." Simon nodded and withdrew with a little smile for Kaylee. Tom noted the way her eyes flicked after the doctor; apparently he was not the only one with experience in unrequited love.

-o-

Elsie Hughes thought Daisy was bearing up remarkably well, considering, but Mr. Carson just wouldn't leave the poor girl alone.

"Daisy!" He boomed as he went through the hatch into the galley. Elsie followed, shaking her head. "What is the delay? Luncheon should have been served an hour ago."

"Beg pardon, Mr. Carson." Daisy fluttered about the room like a trapped starling. Her hand hovered over a button before she thought better of pressing it and went over to the counter to stir a bowl of something. Shepherd Book had been instructing her earlier in the use of the appliances, but he'd withdrawn once it became apparent that his presence just flustered the kitchen maid. Now she looked more than a little stressed. "I'm still getting the hang of this kitchen - it should be down in a jiffy."

"This is unacceptable!" Carson sniffed. "And the servants still needing their luncheon as well. There's heavy work to be done this afternoon." He sniffed again. "Is something burning?" Daisy yelped and snatched a pot off the burner, almost spilling hot soup on the floor.

Elsie could stand it no longer. "Mr. Carson!" she snapped. "May I remind you that Daisy is under my supervision."

"She most certainly is not!" Carson contradicted. "I have always overseen table service."

"And _I_ have always overseen the kitchen staff when Mrs. Patmore is away," Mrs. Hughes returned. Daisy began to sniffle and Elsie was immediately sorry she'd mentioned the cook's name.

"Oh!" Daisy cried, collapsing into a chair and burying her face in her apron. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson, really I am." her voice was muffled. "I'll try to - " sob, sniffle - "do better."

Carson looked thunderstruck, but then his face softened into a rather gentler glower. "Here now, Daisy," he said awkwardly. "It's a lot for one person to handle. Especially after such a loss as you have experienced."

"She needs help," Elsie said. "Things can't go on the way they were. We're not at Downton anymore."

"And I suppose you'd have everyone in here cooking for themselves like a lot of..." Carson trailed off, too indignant to come up with an adequate simile.

Zoe and Wash sauntered in from the bridge, Zoe laughing lightly at something her husband had just said. They quieted when they took in the scene. "Everything all right?" Zoe asked.

"Quite all right," Elsie answered. The last thing she wanted was to be a bother. "Daisy was just having a bit of a rest before she finished up with luncheon."

Wash raised his eyebrows incredulously. "You're making her cook for all of you?"

Goodness, he made it sound like they'd enslaved the poor girl. "Well, we thought you'd hardly want _all _of us running through the kitchen day and night," Elsie came back crisply. Wash shrugged and exchanged an eye-roll with his wife before they made themselves scarce.

Elsie surveyed the galley. It looked as if Daisy had made a decent enough start. "All right. Mr. Carson, if you would kindly fetch Ethel - " she began rolling up her sleeves - "the three of us can manage the meal." She sighed. "It looks like I'll be more use upstairs than down, here."

-o-

At her age, Granny was entitled to some privacy, Sybil thought; and no one believed for a minute that Thomas Barrow would be gentlemanly enough to offer up his cabin when the drawing went his way. But Sybil felt rather guilty at her luck. She had first offered the tiny room to Mama and Papa, then to Mary, and finally to Anna, but none of them would hear of taking it. So she had carried her meager belongings here - Anna had tried to insist on putting them away for her, but Sybil had refused - and was stowing them in the various cunning little drawers and cupboards. They really knew how to make use of space in the future, she thought.

"Settling in, then?" A male voice from the doorway made her whirl around with a gasp.

"Branson!" she exclaimed. "You scared me."

"Sorry. Door was open." He grinned ruefully. "I was just on my way back to the hold to help your father set up quarters. Trying to get an idea of the lay of the ship." He paused. "And you should probably start calling me Tom," he said. "Seems like most of the people here are on first-name basis with each other. May as well start trying to fit in."

Sybil smiled. "All right. But you're fighting a losing battle, if you're planning on trying to get Papa to call you by your Christian name." She considered a moment. "I suppose you should call me Sybil as well," she said, "but not around my parents, if you don't mind. They're scandalized enough by everything that's going on. And you? How are you getting on in the engine room?" Sybil was really rather curious about that mechanic, not least about the impression Branson had gotten of her. She was quite a pretty girl under the grease, Sybil thought a little peevishly.

Tom didn't respond immediately. He was looking at her abstractedly, mulling something over. Then he seemed to come to a decision. "Sybil..." after a quick glance around, he stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Sybil swallowed and her heartbeat sped up: alone in her room with a man, with the door closed! Crikey, things were changing already. He crossed the small space to stand a few inches in front of her, gazing down into her face. "Everything I said in York, I still mean it," he said quickly, as if he thought she might stop him. "I still want what I wanted then."

She felt her cheeks get hot. "Tom..." What to say? Everything was so muddled now. "Our whole world's been exposed as a gigantic lie. I've just lost my sister and a great many others I care about, and I imagine you've lost a lot of people as well." His eyes seemed to have turned deeper blue, more liquid, in the last minute. A person could drown in them, she thought, but she kept firm. "You have to give me some time," she entreated. "To... to adjust to the new reality. Please do that for me? Can you wait a little while?"

"Of course." He stepped back, turning away. Just before he opened the door he twisted back around and reached over to grasp her hand. "Sybil," he told her, "I'd wait forever." He let her go and, after checking up and down the corridor to make sure no one was about, left.

She looked down at the hand he'd taken, raised it briefly to her lips. "I'm not asking for forever," she murmured to the empty cabin, before giving her head a little shake and going back to arranging her things.

-ooo-

Paris, June 24, 1917 (Day 5)

There'd been no answering telegram from the police station at Ripon. Matthew had tried telephoning, and then wiring York - it was only money, after all. York had wired back that they were receiving an unusual volume of enquiries and that he might have better luck following the newspapers. He telephoned the home secretary's office in London but was not able to be put through. Finally he left the army headquarters office, frustrated and more frightened than when he'd gone in. What in God's name was going on up there, an apocalypse?

He went back to his room and answered Lavinia's letter, expressing his relief that she was all right and his wish that they could be together. _Darling, please stay safe_, he wrote, then hesitated before adding: _If you hear any news, any news at all of my mother or of the others in Yorkshire, let me know as soon as you can_.

He went out to post the letter. That done, he took a walk through the streets to calm his nerves. It was getting toward evening, and he noticed that there seemed to be an inordinate number of drunken carousers about. Passing an alley, movement caught his eye; he looked away quickly once he registered what the man and woman were doing up against the wall. This was all part of the scenery in certain quarters of a city full of soldiers in wartime, of course, but usually not until after dark. Today it seemed more blatant, more - dare he say - desperate.

William was waiting to help him dress when he got back, as he had a dinner to attend. Matthew could not imagine anything more tiresome at the moment, but he couldn't think of a polite way to get out of it. The affair was hosted by the wife of a French officer who was also minor nobility, Viscount Something-or-Other; Matthew never could keep track of these things. The woman was English - her father owned a glove factory and apparently the good viscount had been rather out of pocket before his marriage - and most of the guests were military or expatriate Britons as well. Matthew took in the laden table, the glittering crystal of the chandeliers, and wondered if any of these people read the papers. Of course they did: they were talking of little else but the attacks, as the war was quite boring by now. But they spoke in such a callous manner, as if the stories flowing from England and beyond of murder and mayhem were a serial published for their amusement. He began to feel ill.

After dinner he begged off the brandy and cigars and drawing room pleasantries, having William summoned from downstairs. "I think we'll walk back tonight, William," he told his batman. "I feel as though I need some air."

William seemed to approve of that, and they set off. Matthew had developed considerable regard for his subordinate in the months they'd spent together. William was loyal, prudent and much more astute than people gave him credit for, and he'd saved Matthew's life on the battlefield several times. Matthew had no doubt that the man would cheerfully take a bullet for him, a thought that gave him some discomfort.

As they walked down the lamplit street, they spoke of anything but violence. A wistful note crept into William's voice as he talked to Matthew of his father's farm and his hopes that he would someday bring his wife there to live.

"I thought you wanted Carson's job one day," Matthew said lightly.

"That were me mum's dream, not mine," William answered mildly. "Dad'll need someone to work the farm after he's gone, and I've got some experience." He paused a moment. "It's easier to have a family on a farm than workin' in a great house."

Matthew smiled. "Daisy, that's your sweetheart, isn't it?" William nodded. "She accepted you, then?"

"Not yet. But I think she will. Next time I go back I'm going to ask her."

"Good for you." Then Matthew remembered that Daisy was no longer at Downton, and William seemed to as well, and they fell silent, each man going into his own thoughts. Matthew's, as was their wont, turned to Mary: was she alive? Was she all right? Again he felt a pang of remorse at his comparative lack of concern for Lavinia; but then, he knew where and how she was.

They neared the Champ de Mars. The green space had of late been given over to training exercises, and this far into the evening it should have been closed and deserted, but Matthew and William could see bright lights glaring over the tall hedges and hear some sort of commotion going on. They came even with the gate and, looking inside, stopped in their tracks in shock.

There appeared to be a large air-ship parked in the open space, where just this afternoon French army men had been drilling.

Matthew immediately moved to the side of the gate, pushing William behind him, his heart pounding. The first thing he thought of was the story he'd read in the paper this afternoon. But when he peeked back through the entrance he saw that this ship did not seem to fit the description of the ones in the article: it gleamed, silvery blue, and was studded with piercing lights in various hues. Its side was emblazoned with a flag that he had to squint to make out. It was not the banner of any nation he knew. The block of blue and the red-and-white stripes put him in mind of the American flag, but that was overlaid with a scarlet field with golden stars, a design completely unfamiliar to him.

The gangway was open and there were people all around it. Going in were men and women in various types of civilian dress: workingmen, nurses, servants, what looked like a comfortably middle-class family. The men - and women too, Matthew noticed - who directed them looked like military, but again, their uniforms did not mark them as part of any force known to him.

Despite the uniforms, despite the fact that they were efficiently directing what appeared to be willing civilians onto their ship, Matthew felt an overwhelming sense that these people were not here to help. He and William should avoid being seen if at all possible, he decided. He motioned to William that they should walk on, and they moved quickly down the street, putting the park behind them before they ducked into an alley to get their bearings.

"Sir -" William began.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Private Mason," Matthew cut him off crisply. "I believe it would be most prudent of us to return to headquarters."

"Yes, sir."

Before they could even leave the alley, though, they heard a terrific putt-putt-putting, like the roar of a thousand motorcycles, and looked up to see a smallish, decrepit, vicious-looking vessel pass overhead, trailing a billow of dark smoke. It touched down with a great rumble - a few streets away, it sounded like. _This _looked like it could be one of the savages' ships from the paper, Matthew thought, and a wave of dread broke in his heart.

"Private Mason, have you your sidearm?" he asked, cursing himself for having left his in his room; but who'd have thought he'd need it at a society dinner?

"Yes, sir," came the answer smartly.

"Good," Matthew returned. "You may need to cover our retreat."

"What's our destination, sir?"

"Still headquarters, if we can get there." They set off, keeping close to the walls, using shrubbery as cover. More and more of the grotesque ships were landing, however: taking the measure of the situation, Matthew spotted plumes of black smoke rising all over the city nearby. It appeared to be a full-scale invasion. He ducked into the next alley, squatting behind the trash bins, William following.

"Sir, it looks like they're coming down everywhere," William observed rather unnecessarily. "I don't think we'll be able to make it back to the barracks if this keeps up." He was not wrong: they were a mile or more away, through increasingly hostile territory.

"All right, change of plan," Matthew muttered. "We go back to the Champ de Mars. The people at that ship - whoever they are - will have seen the savages landing; they'll mount some sort of defense."

"Sir, won't they be leaving? It looked like they were evacuating civilians." And once the mysterious ship was gone, they'd be in no better state than before.

Matthew considered - very briefly - and came to a conclusion he did not like at all: in fact, everything in him revolted against it. Getting onto such a vessel would no doubt be difficult and dangerous; they had no idea where it was going or what sort of people ran it; they'd be deserting. And then there was Lavinia - what if London was experiencing the same thing as Paris right now? - and his mother and the rest of the Crawleys, whose fates remained unknown.

But staying here was death. Not death in battle, which he had to believe had some strategic purpose despite its grievousness. Just death, horrible and agonizing and to no end. Matthew made his decision.

"When they leave, we'll be with them," he said. "Private Mason, we're getting on that ship."

-to be continued-


	5. Chapter 5: Plans and Dreams

_AN: Here we continue where we left off with Matthew and William's escape from Paris, as well as moving toward a plan for the Crawleys' future (though whether it will work out remains to be seen)._

_This chapter is a little heavy on the upstairs people, but I promise Team Servants will get its due. Thomas and O'Brien will scheme; Ethel will irritate; Bates and Anna will look dreamily into each others' eyes (and hopefully not bore everyone to sleep); Carson will harrumph adorably to Mrs. Hughes. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Paris, June 24, 1917 (Day 5)

The area around the Champ de Mars was still relatively calm: none of the corpse-covered ships had landed very close by. Apparently the savages had enough sense to consider the sleek transport in the park a threat. It made Matthew wonder how the ship, so obviously the product of an advanced civilization, might be connected with the barbarian invasion. For the first time, the possibility that these vessels might be not from another country, but from _somewhere else_, entered his mind. What known nation - and of course all of the civilized ones were known - would have such capability?

He had no time now to indulge his curiosity on that score, however. He and William stealthily made their way inside the park and to a spot about fifty yards away from the ship where they could observe it without being seen themselves. All but two of the military personnel had disappeared, and the flow of evacuees - if that was truly what they were - had slowed to a trickle. Matthew noticed that among the civilians entering the ship there were a number of Allied soldiers and officers. Deserters? He wasn't sure, but they were granted entry along with the others.

"Look," William said, under his breath, "they're all showing some sort of papers to get in." He was right. As each person approached the entrance, he or she brandished a small white card: not to a person, but to a machine, which then emitted a short, high-pitched tone and shone a green light. "Sir, what do we do?"

Matthew had no earthly idea. There did not seem to be any other open point of ingress, so it looked as if they would have to try their luck going straight up the gangway. But he thought that if one simply tried to walk onto the ship, that reading machine might send out a signal that would make the large men with guns standing on either side of the hatch do something very unpleasant.

They had to act soon, though, or else they would be left behind: the activity around the ship had the distinct feel of an operation being wrapped up. One of the soldiers left the side of the gangway to walk around the perimeter of the ship, and Matthew nudged his subordinate. "We make our move as soon as he's out of sight," he whispered. "We'll go up like we belong there." William nodded that he understood.

They were just about to step into the circle of light around the vessel when someone literally ran into them. He sprawled on the ground, a tall man in a British army uniform: Matthew had never seen him before. He was clearly in a panic, trying to scramble to his feet while fumbling in his pocket for something. "They're r-r-right outside the p-p-p-park," he stammered, his eyes rolling like a spooked mare's, hands shaking so badly he couldn't control them. "Thuh-the Reavers." Matthew had been driven off balance, but not off his feet, and he reflexively bent down to give the man a hand up.

"Can I help?" He heard himself say.

"Muh-my ID. Right f-f-front pocket," the poor man managed to get out. William stepped forward smartly and extracted a white card like the ones the evacuees had used to get onto the ship. He glanced back at Matthew, just barely making eye contact, and understanding surged between them like electricity. As in battle, Matthew acted before he could think about it. He grabbed William's sidearm out of its holster and hit the British army impostor hard across the temple with it.

The man went down like a sack of potatoes; Matthew registered a line of blood springing out of his face and briefly hoped he hadn't killed him. But then he was handing William his gun back and striding purposefully up to the gangway of the ship, his heart pounding nearly out of his chest. "Stay on me," he muttered out of the side of his mouth to William. He nodded to the lone guard left at the entrance and briskly presented the ill-gotten card to the machine, as he'd seen the others do.

Nothing happened.

Matthew inspected the card. One side of it had a photograph - in color, remarkable - of the man, who looked nothing like Matthew, and a few lines of printing. The other had a pattern inscribed in black and white, and a shiny silver strip along one side. Matthew flipped the card over so that the patterned side faced the reading machine, and a line of red light played over it.

The machine beeped, and the green light shone.

The guard's attention had been drawn by Matthew's delay at the entrance, and he most definitely noticed two people trying to go through on one card. "Hey," he barked at William, "you need to scan your ID." William's mouth flopped open, but before Matthew could speak the guard's attention was captured by something else. He cocked his head, seeming to listen: he had some sort of mobile wireless rig, it looked like. "Roger that," he said, pressing a button at his shoulder. He motioned at William. "We're heading out, _chǔn dàn_. Your ID. Scan it."

Matthew spoke quickly. "He lost it," he said. "They were breathing down our necks."

The guard shook his head in annoyance and stepped up to the machine, opening a panel on the front. "You know your ID number?"

Another slight, significant glance passed between William and his commanding officer, but this time Matthew had no idea what to do next. The guard's attention was momentarily on the numbered buttons in front of him. William's eyes flicked down the corridor into the ship, then back at Matthew's, before his hand flashed to his holster and brought out his sidearm. He grabbed the guard in a headlock and put the barrel of the gun to the man's head. "Take his weapon, sir!" he cried.

Matthew's mouth sagged open in shock, but he recovered quickly, stepping forward and grasping the rifle. The guard held on to it. "I wouldn't," Matthew warned. "William's never hesitated to shoot a hun yet, and he wouldn't miss at this range." The man opened his hands.

Just then the other guard returned from his circuit of the ship, pounding up the hatchway at speed, pushing the button on his shoulder to activate his wireless and yelling, "Enemy is approaching! Let's pull up the drawbridge and get the hell out of here! Repeat, enemy is - " he skidded to a stop when he saw the standoff occurring at the gate.

William re-tightened his grip on the first guard's neck. "Run, sir!" he cried.

"Don't be ridiculous, William," Matthew retorted, pointing his newly acquired weapon at the interloper and hoping he looked as if he knew how to operate it. The hatch closed in seconds; as soon as it had sealed shut the ship lifted off the ground precipitously. Matthew and William were thrown off balance for only a second, but it was long enough for William's man to twist out of his grip, draw a sidearm and level it at his erstwhile captor.

Matthew knew he had to act before the guards relieved them of their weapons, so he aimed his weapon at William's man and pulled the trigger, hoping against hope that it would work, bracing himself for the recoil and the sight of another man falling to his bullet.

It didn't fire. _Blast and bugger it_, Matthew thought. He had one more option: he didn't like it, but otherwise they'd both be taken. And if he could get away, hide somewhere on the ship, he might be able to mount a rescue operation. He turned and ran zig-zagging down the corridor, not daring to look behind him.

One of the guards fired. The man was a good shot, Matthew thought disjointedly as he fell. The last sensation he was aware of was a great, spreading pain in his lower back.

-o-

_Serenity_, 2517 (Day 5)

Mary sat at the galley table for breakfast with Granny and her parents and sister, toast and tea before her. This soon after waking up, anything more roiled her stomach. They took the meal in shifts: first _Serenity's_ crew and passengers, then the servants, then the family. "In order of usefulness," Sybil had quipped on the first morning. Not that words like _morning _or _teatime _or _tomorrow _had more than symbolic significance, out here.

Mary was holding her cup in both hands, envisioning with excruciating clarity the blank white oval of Edith's face as it had looked from the closing hatchway, when an intense chill suddenly came over her, as if she'd been walking across a frozen pond and plunged through the ice. She gasped. The cup fell from her fingers and its handle snapped off as it hit the floor. Tea splashed across the tiles.

"Are you quite well, m'lady?" Carson had been standing at his chosen station by the counter, but now he leapt forward. Papa half rose to his feet; Mama put her hand to her mouth.

The spell passed quickly and Mary raised her hand to calm them all. "I'm perfectly all right," she said. "I just felt very cold all of a sudden."

Carson cleaned up the spill and fetched her another cup of tea and Sybil got up and felt her forehead, took her pulse. She knelt in front of Mary and looked up into her sister's face solicitously. "Are you sure you're all right? Maybe you should lie down."

Mary made herself smile. "Darling, I'll be fine. Don't worry."

Soon breakfast was over with and the family went their separate ways. Mama and Granny to the sitting area that had been set up in the hold; Papa to speak with the captain and that cleric; Sybil to go wherever it was she went. Mary paced the ship, restless. Around the perimeter of the cargo bay and then up the stairs to the gantry, to walk that perimeter as well. Her mind worked uneasily at the desperate thought that had sprung unbidden into it at the moment coldness overtook her.

_Oh dear God, Matthew!_

-o-

Having prepared breakfast for the family, Daisy went downstairs to make herself scarce while they ate it. She'd learnt how to work most of the kitchen equipment by now: it was easy once you knew what the buttons did. And she was amazed at the way those appliances did all the work for you. The first time she'd used the food processor had been a revelation.

Now she helped Mrs. Hughes and Anna tidy the living quarters, hanging up clothes and pulling the blankets tightly over the pallets. She was no housemaid but Ethel had been shirking lately. Anyhow, Daisy found that keeping busy kept her mind off things, and Mrs. Hughes clearly appreciated the extra pair of hands. "You've been a big help these past few days, Daisy," she remarked kindly. "It's important to keep up the routine as best we can in these times... at least for a while."

Daisy did not ask what would happen after _a while_ had passed. She'd be glad to stay with the Crawleys wherever they fetched up. They'd been decent employers and she thought it might be a comfort to them, to have a familiar face in their kitchen. It would certainly be a comfort to her: she shrank from the thought of the unknown worlds she'd heard discussed like a mole from the sun.

They'd finished up with the hold and Daisy was following Anna down the passage to do Old Lady Grantham's and Lady Sybil's quarters when she shivered, seeming to hear fireworks inside her head. She felt faint; she had to put her hand on the wall to keep her balance.

Anna sensed that she'd lost her shadow and turned. "Daisy? Are you all right?"

There were still black spots swimming before her eyes, but she no longer felt as if she was going to fall over. "It weren't nowt," she answered. "I just - it felt like someone walked over me grave."

"Do you need to sit down? We can't have you fainting in the corridor." Anna grinned encouragingly.

"No, I'll be right as rain in a moment," Daisy assured her. And she did feel better now, though there remained a mental disquiet she couldn't put a reason to.

-ooo-

Cora sat in the hold with her mother-in-law, who was mercifully silent. Violet had been rather less opinionated since they'd left Downton. Of course a woman who'd accompanied her husband through the wilds of colonial India without putting a hair out of place would hardly be undone by abrupt flight from a collapsing civilization, but the death of her granddaughter was another matter. Cora noticed that the Dowager Countess was pale, with hands that shook more than they had before.

For the first few days Cora had attempted to raise everyone's spirits, to be the rock they needed her to be. She'd chattered about inconsequential topics to Violet and her daughters; she'd given Robert supportive glances whenever he looked at her. But she was beginning to flag. Her head ached horribly, as it had done for the last five days. She was tired, so very tired. Yet the past four nights she had lain down to sleep and her eyes would not stay shut. When she did manage to drift off she dreamed of Edith. _Poor Edith_, she and Robert had remarked more than once, half in jest. How unspeakably true it had turned out to be.

So now Cora could only sit working the bit of embroidery she'd brought along. When that was done she didn't know what she'd do: pull out the thread and start over, maybe. O'Brien stood nearby, ready to help if she was needed. The lady's maid had always been a treasure, but she'd truly proven her mettle since this terrible business began, Cora thought. She'd worked without complaint, keeping things shipshape, and patiently listened to Cora whinge about the small discomforts. It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps O'Brien was as exhausted and frightened as she herself was. If that were true, though, the maid allowed no sign of it to show.

Robert bustled in, fresh from his consultation with Captain Reynolds and Shepherd Book. He actually looked rather positive, a welcome change from the last few days. "The captain informs me that we'll reach civilization in a few days' time," he announced. "A world called Persephone, where they'll resupply their ship. We'll be able to change what we have into ready money, and buy some of the things we'll need." Cora had been canny enough to prioritize small, valuable items when having their effects packed, and they had an entire case full of jewelry. She had no compunction about letting any of it go. None of it held much meaning for her, not really. The only thing she regretted was the bridal tiara, secure in a safe deposit box in Ripon.

"That's wonderful," Cora said, smiling. It would be nice to get off this cramped ship for a little while, maybe eat a decent meal. "So did Captain Reynolds have any ideas about what we should do?"

"He and Shepherd Book think we should try and settle on one of the frontier worlds. Captain Reynolds seems to believe we'll be better off laying low than joining society, but I'm not so sure," Robert told her. "He paints the Alliance government as quite a sinister entity. But I gather that he fought against them not long ago... was beaten quite badly, as a matter of fact. So that has most likely colored his views."

Violet spoke up. "As long as we end up in a place where one can find a decent cup of tea, you'll hear no argument from me."

"We have limited resources and we must take the long view in using them," Cora said. "Setting up on a frontier world could work to our advantage, if we can buy up a concern of some sort that'll provide us an income. A mine, or a ranch, or..."

"But you must think of the girls, dear," Violet argued: in express contradiction of her last statement, Cora noted. "If they are to be marooned on some ranch mucking out horse stalls, how will their futures be secured?"

"I'm as anxious as you for Mary and Sybil to make suitable matches," Cora replied smoothly, "but at the moment that is a secondary consideration."

Robert had been darting his gaze between them as if watching a tennis match, but now he asserted his authority. "We should make a place for ourselves in society if we can," he declared. "We may not have much of a pedigree here, but we're to the manner born and people should be able to see that." Cora shot him a doubtful look, but he pressed on. "When we land on Persephone, I plan to explore our options for settling there or on one of the other... core planets." The unfamiliar terms of this universe fell off his tongue with difficulty.

Cora sighed, but knew that the best time for convincing Robert of anything he was reluctant to believe was after they'd gone to bed. "Whatever you think best, darling."

"And there's one other thing you should know," he added. "I've told Carson to let the servants know that they are free to leave our employ if they wish, with our good wishes and a reference. It's not fair on them to expect them to keep working for no wages, and I don't know when we'll be able to pay them again."

Violet's eyes lifted to the ceiling. "Oh, heavens. Let the stampede begin."

-ooo-

From under the engine, Tom heard footfalls approaching that were definitely not Kaylee's coming back. He grinned - _just like old times_ - but stayed where he was until he heard her voice. Like dark rich honey, that voice. She always sounded as though she'd just woken up.

"How are you settling in?"

Just a slight emphasis on the word _you _let him know that Sybil had been thinking of their last conversation. His grin widened, but he wiped it off his face before sliding out and getting to his feet. "All right, I suppose." He gestured at the engine he'd been studying. "I've got my work cut out for me and no mistake. But I'm learning a lot."

"So you're planning to stay on _Serenity_?" He thought he could hear the barest tinge of disappointment in her tone.

"No. They've no need of two mechanics, nor money to pay both of us."

"Oh." It hadn't even occurred to Sybil that Tom would still need to earn his living, though of course he would. How stupid of her. She was unaccountably relieved, though: she knew that her parents were discussing their options, and taking up residence on the ship was not among them.

Tom wiped his hands on a convenient rag. "But Kaylee says it's good experience, learning how to maintain a Firefly class." Kaylee's actual words had been more like _If you can keep this rattletrap afloat, you can handle anything_. "She thinks I'll be able to get some work on the strength of that."

_Well, if _Kaylee _says so, then it must be true_, Sybil thought waspishly. "So you're not thinking of going into politics anymore?"

His laugh had a bitter edge. "It turns out that my knowledge of history and government is no longer relevant."

"But there must be opportunities in this... universe. Even more than there were at home, I dare say." Sybil's voice lowered; she stepped toward him. "I'm sure you could do great things - you shouldn't give up on your dreams."

He couldn't look away from her eyes, wide and full of earnest concern and goodwill. He knew he shouldn't say it, shouldn't keep badgering her, but he couldn't stop himself. "Sybil, there's only one dream that matters to me right now."

It was obvious to her what he meant: her face closed up. "I've told you I need time."

"You brought it up," he retorted, feeling a rush of irritation.

Her mouth twisted in frustration. "I brought up your future! Your aspirations! Not - "

"And for me any thought of my future includes you."

"Well, maybe it shouldn't!"

They stared at each other for an infinite moment. Sybil watched his eyes harden, his shoulders stiffen. She wished she could pluck her words out of the air and stuff them back into her mouth.

Kaylee bounded in, breaking the spell but not the tension. Her gaze went from Sybil to Tom. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Certainly not," Sybil said, giving her an unfriendly look and stalking out.

Kaylee turned her head to follow Sybil's progress, then made a face. "What was that all about?"

Tom snorted. "Nothing."

"_Riiight_," Kaylee said skeptically, eyebrows raised.

Tom stayed silent and bent over the capacitor, pretending to fiddle with something.

"Look, it's okay if you don't wanna talk about it, but I can see it all over your face."

Tom kept his eyes down. "I don't know what you mean."

The mechanic let out a peal of laughter. "Jeez, Tom, anybody can see you're nuts about her."

Now he looked up quickly. "Anybody?"

Kaylee shrugged. "Anybody who's paying attention. Why do you care so much who knows, anyway?"

Tom was riled into insolence. "Why do you? I've seen how you make eyes at that doctor when you think he's not looking."

She thought of Simon: his infuriating superiority, his way of calling attention to things she hadn't even known were failings and making her insecure about them. His intelligence. His clever, gentle hands. His broad shoulders. She smiled ruefully, unperturbed. "That's different. Only reason he pays me any mind at all is, I'm the only eligible girl around... or I was, until you all showed up. I don't think he actually _likes _me."

Tom sputtered a dismal chuckle. "I don't see how my situation is much different."

Kaylee just shook her head, but she recalled the way Sybil had been leaning toward Tom with her whole body. Like she was being pulled by invisible strings. _Oh, she likes him all right_, Kaylee thought. _She likes him a_ lot.

-o-

_The nerve of him, _Sybil thought furiously, stomping back toward her quarters, _the bloody-minded arrogance. _She knew he was full of himself but she hadn't thought him self-absorbed. Was _that _all he could think about - that presumptuous, _frightfully _inappropriate proposal? It wasn't _his _sister who'd died practically in front of him, nor his _other _sister who stalked the ship all the time like a ghost. Sybil had plenty of other things to worry about; she didn't need him harassing her for an answer every time she turned round.

_I'd best not go to the engine room again_. She had just wanted - she didn't quite know what she'd wanted. To talk to someone she didn't have to be strong for, she supposed. She thought of the way he'd looked when he spoke of his dream. His hands, those nimble hands, twisting a rag nervously, his eyes soft, his lips slightly parted... she shook the image from her mind impatiently. Thinking like that would never do.

Talking to her parents was the last thing she felt like doing right now, so she skirted the makeshift sitting area in the hold. Papa, Mama and Granny were deep in conversation and didn't even look up as she passed. She barrelled through the infirmary and down the corridor, making for the safety of her cabin, nearly knocking Simon down as he emerged from his own. "Sorry!" she cried breathlessly, whirling around to check on him. "Are you all right?"

"I could ask you the same thing," the medic replied. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing. Other than the obvious, of course," she amended with a weak half-smile.

Simon returned it. "I don't know how much you've heard about River's and my situation," he told her. "But I do know how it feels to be a fish out of water. If there's anything I can do..."

"Actually, there is something." Sybil had been working up the nerve to broach this question, and there wouldn't be a better time. "I'm going a bit mad not having anything to do, and I wondered if I might ask you to show me some things about practicing medicine. I worked as a nurse back home," she continued quickly, seeing him raise an incredulous eyebrow. "I've got medical training."

"I don't know. Medicine's a little different in the twenty-sixth century," Simon said doubtfully.

"That's why I need to learn as much as I can as quickly as possible." Sybil grinned at him. "Is it true that there are lots of women doctors now?"

-ooo-

By luncheon Mary had recovered her composure, though the morning's episode had stirred up her emotions about Matthew's probable death all over again. At midmorning she'd gone to Sybil's cabin - her sister had said she could use it any time she wanted privacy - and had a bit of a cry. It had done wonders to clear her head, and she could dismiss the silly thoughts that had been revolving through it. The idea! As if she were somehow able to sense Matthew being in danger, let alone do anything to help him. It was laughable, really.

Papa announced at the meal that he wanted to speak with them before tea, as a family: that what he had to say concerned all their futures. But for now Mary was at liberty. She sat for a little while with Mama and Granny, whom Sybil had given a new topic of conversation. It seemed she'd persuaded the ship's medic to train her in modern medicine. True to form, Mama was hesitant to bless the association, while Granny mostly seemed amused by it, as long as nothing untoward went on.

"Well, I don't see how Sybil expects to learn anything with no patients," Mary remarked.

Cora explained, "They've pressed Mr. Tam's sister into service as a dummy."

"She's mugging on that table like a stage actress," Violet said disapprovingly.

"You both seem to know quite a lot about it."

"What else have we got to do?" Violet spread her empty hands.

Mary lifted an arch eyebrow. "Yet I haven't seen either of you move in the last forty minutes." Her unspoken question was answered when O'Brien approached, quiet as a cat, to murmur into Cora's ear. Mary rolled her eyes and rose. "Good heavens. I'm going for a walk."

She traversed the catwalks, went into the galley, and then entered the corridor that led to the bridge. She knew the crew had their quarters somewhere nearby, but no one had told her she couldn't come here. She thought of the time she and the Duke of Crowborough had explored the attics, and how awkwardly _that _expedition had ended; but truly, she wasn't here to pry into anyone's personal affairs. She was just deadly bored.

The hallway did not promise much in the way of entertainment. It was not long, and its only features were a series of chutes with ladders leading down, presumably, to the crew cabins. Maybe she would go see what the bridge looked like, Mary thought. She could tell the pilot she'd gotten lost. At the very least, she'd get a look out of the window.

She was about to open the hatch into the bridge when she heard the metallic chink-chink of footsteps ascending a ladder behind her and knew she'd been caught out. Mary knew from experience that a calm, confident manner was the key to extricating oneself from these situations, and she turned with a vaguely apologetic expression, prepared to deal calmly and confidently with whoever had discovered her.

Of course it was Mr. Cobb. "You're a little outside the guardrail, aren't you, sister?" he said balefully. Or maybe he just said it, and it was his towering height and constantly furrowed brow that lent his words their air of menace.

"I'm sorry," Mary replied, affecting innocence. "I didn't realize this area was off limits. One does get terribly tired of circling the hold over and over."

"If you're that bored, my bunk's right here," he said with a leer that there was no mistaking.

_I don't believe I've been propositioned so crassly since Kemal Pamuk_. Mary felt herself blushing and was suddenly grateful that her bed was separated from her parents' by no more than a thin screen: there would be no stealing into her room here. She said through icy lips, "That may be how men talk to women in this time, Mr. Cobb, but I assure you I am quite unaccustomed to it. I'll say good day." She edged past him toward the galley, vowing that she would scream if he so much as touched her.

Luckily for him, he didn't. Instead he said, "Aw, gorr - I mean, jeez, I'm sorry if I vexed you." He actually looked shamefaced. "Sometimes words just come out of my mouth without me thinkin' about 'em beforehand." Mary was not thawed, but she inclined her head before sweeping into the galley. The oaf had the nerve to follow her. "Heard you had a little spell at breakfast," he remarked. "You all right? Sometimes the artificial gravity throws people for a loop."

Mary bit back a sarcastic reply. He was being nice for once, no need to spoil it. "I'm perfectly fine," she told him with a brittle smile. "I haven't been sleeping very well, that's all." She cursed herself for mentioning sleep and giving him an opening to say something horrid, but he just looked concerned.

"Thinkin' about your sister," he said softly. "Is that it?" Tears stung the backs of her eyelids. She would not let them fall. She nodded. "That's rough." He reached out, almost hesitantly, and put his hand on her shoulder. She could feel its warmth through the thin silk of her dress. He squeezed gently. Supportively. He turned and walked away, toward the stairwell.

She found herself wondering how many people Jayne Cobb had seen die. How many he'd killed.

-ooo-

He was so drowsy, but he felt no pain. Matthew struggled to remember what had happened to him. He couldn't seem to concentrate. He kept falling asleep again, dreaming vivid fascinating dreams like moving pictures in color, so interesting that he was sorry each time his semi-conscious mind fought to the surface again. He slitted his eyes open, unable to discern more than bright white light and fuzzy shadow. He closed them and let images play across the backs of his eyelids: Mary coming toward him in a long, clinging white gown plunging low between her breasts, smiling invitingly. He'd never seen her in such a dress before. He began to smile back...

...and his mother's voice brought him to wakefulness. Even in his confused state he wondered how she could be here, but it was undoubtedly her, speaking encouragingly in a low voice. Was he back in Yorkshire? Had he been wounded, then?

"Mother?" he mumbled. "Mother, I had the strangest dream..."

-to be continued-


	6. Chapter 6: Plots and Schemes

_AN: Hi, new story followers! (wave) Hope you enjoy._

_I've worked ahead some on this fic, so here's hoping the intervals between the next few updates will be shorter. Just a warning: this chapter has a _whole _lot of talk and not much action... everyone's gotten their bearings a little, but now they need to think about their futures in their new home, wherever that may be._

_Going over DA episode recaps, I found that in the show, Bates was still working in the pub during the time I fixed for the Reaver attack and subsequent flight from Downton (June 1917), whereas I have him valeting away for Robert. All I can say is... artistic license? Sorry for the inconsistency._

* * *

_Serenity_, 2517 (still Day 5)

Thomas had tried to conserve, but he was down to his last two packets of cigarettes. Of course Sarah hadn't brought any, and of course she'd seen fit to remind him of all the times she'd been generous. He felt like telling her that there hadn't been an apocalypse going on then, but he kept his mouth shut and handed over a fag here and there to keep the peace in close quarters. If he had his way, he'd see the benefit of this and other kindnesses soon enough.

Nevertheless, he scowled when Sarah poked her head in with a dour "Fancy a smoke?" She entered without waiting for an answer and pushed the door shut.

"Well, come right in."Pointedly, he did not pause in polishing his shoes. No call to let one's appearance go, just because everything else had fallen to shite.

She ignored his sarcasm and sat down on the foot of the bed. "I've got information."

Thomas had wondered what it was the family had their heads together about earlier. He eyed Sarah for a moment before digging into the drawer. Silently he passed her a cig, stuck one between his lips, and lit both on one match.

Irritatingly, Sarah started in with idle conversation instead of spilling right off. "What are your plans, then? You going to try to get back in with Mr. Carson?"

Thomas squinted at her. "Dunno. It's not as if you lot are getting paid, is it? And it looks like there might be opportunities about for the right sort of person."

She blew smoke out the side of her mouth. "Well, you'd best look sharp. You're a babe in the woods in these parts." _As we all are_, Thomas thought. "People like his lordship tend to land on their feet, no matter how much of a hash they make of things," Sarah declared. "People like us'd best keep in their good books."

"I intend to make myself useful until something better presents itself. What was it you wanted to tell me? Or did you just come to bum a fag."

She fixed him with a withering glare and made him wait while she took another drag. "We're to land in a few days." Thomas waited. "Someplace where they can buy and sell. Her ladyship had me pack her jewelry before we left."

_That's not all you packed_. Thomas thought of the valise, heavy with candlesticks and flatware from Downton's silver cupboard, that was currently residing in the cabinet three feet from his bed. He said nothing, though; just raised his cigarette to his lips again.

"Lord Grantham thinks they can establish themselves in whatever sort of society they've got here."

Not if Thomas knew anything about society. "What does her ladyship think?"

"She's of a mind they'd be better off somewhere not so built up. You can take the lady out of America..." Sarah let the rest of the sentence hang. "But she won't disagree with him, not out loud."

"I wonder how many of you they'll want to keep," Thomas mused. Anna, certainly: she could be maid-of-all-work in a pinch. Dedicated body servants were luxuries, but Grantham wouldn't part with John Bates lightly. And it'd be cruel to set poor old Carson and Hughes adrift. The rest might well be jettisoned, and for all his talk about ingratiating himself, Thomas knew he'd be lucky to get a decent reference.

"I'll stay with her as long as she wants me," Sarah said. "That doesn't mean I won't feather my nest, though." She shot him a significant look.

"And I suppose you'd like my help with that too."

"I don't mind. It'll be worth your while."

Thomas drew a last bit of smoke from his cigarette and stubbed it out. "Half."

"You don't want much, do you? I'm the one had the presence of mind to nick the stuff."

"And I'm the one helping you fence it. Unless you'd like to set out in a strange city all on your own with a bagful of silver."

She sighed. "All right then. You'd best get a good price for it, though."

"I'll do what I can."

She stood up. "Mr. Carson's going to speak to the servants tomorrow after breakfast. You coming?"

"Telling us what you've just told me?" She nodded. "I suppose so. I've nothing much else to do. Leave the door open when you go, the air's blue in here."

-ooo-

Though there was no door here to lock between the male and female servants' quarters, Mrs. Hughes was just as assiduous in keeping them away from each others' beds as she had been at Downton. What moments John and Anna had together, they stole on the catwalk above the hold. Anyone could see them, of course - but in a place like this, privacy was largely a matter of courtesy.

By now they had no need of words. A significant quirk of the eyebrow as the servants sat down to dinner, an answering half-smile, were enough to set the appointment. _Meet me while the family's at dinner._

After dressing Lord Grantham, John made his way to the usual spot. He went carefully, as his stick had a tendency to get stuck in the floor grille: just yesterday he'd nearly fallen while going down the stairs after breakfast, eliciting a spiteful smirk from Miss O'Brien. Evidently the end of the world had not improved her character. Anna kissed him soundly as soon as he arrived, though she broke off rather more quickly than he liked. "We should find a place that doesn't have stairs next time," she fretted, looking down at his bad leg worriedly.

John waved away her concern. "Don't waste time fussing over me. I'm perfectly all right." He started to put out his hand to touch her hair, but stopped himself, not wanting to disarrange the cap she still wore. He settled for a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, just above the black armband. "Have they said anything to you?" He meant the Crawleys.

"No, nothing." Lady Sybil had stopped changing for dinner, though Lady Mary still did. But Anna said she was quiet as the grave these days, offering none of the confidences she had at home. Anna worried over Lady Mary, John knew, and it upset her that there did not seem to be any way she could help.

He was glad to be able to bring happy news for once. "His lordship said that we're landing in a few days. We're getting off this ship." John grinned and took Anna's hand. "Anna, I told him that we want to go ahead and marry once things get a bit more settled."

A sudden smile lit her face, replaced just as quickly by doubt. "Do you really think your wife is dead?" Anna never seemed to want to use Vera's name, John noticed; it was as if she thought saying it would invoke her.

"Does it matter?" He shrugged. "From all indications, the law we were married under doesn't hold anymore. And even if it did - "

Anna cut him off with a shake of her head. "I don't care about that, Mr. Bates." She lowered her voice. "I'd live with you in sin, just so I could be with you." John opened his mouth to speak, but she laid a gentle finger over his lips. "But I'm just as glad to move on as if we know she's gone."

His arms went around her. "Not as glad as I am."

-ooo-

It was late and he was tired, but Tom lingered in the galley, waiting to go downstairs until the flurry of bedtime activity died down a little. Lord Grantham was right about one thing: it was awkward having everyone sleeping in the same space, partitions or no. _Not as awkward as it would be if he knew what was going on between me and his daughter_, Tom thought.

Which was precisely nothing, apparently. Sybil had made her feelings clear enough this morning. He sat at the table with a cup of tea, wishing it were something stronger, and wondered what his lordship had planned for the family. Trying to recreate their former lives as closely as possible, no doubt, complete with a position in society and good marriages for the daughters. Wherever they were going, it was unlikely they'd have the wherewithal to employ a chauffeur. The thought of literally being worlds away from Sybil, of never seeing her again, pierced Tom to his core.

The hatch leading from the crew quarters slid open and the redheaded pilot - what was it they all called him, Wash? - walked through. He gave Tom a nod, which he returned, and started rummaging around in the cabinets.

"There's nothing to eat in this place," Wash complained after a minute. "Well, there's food, of course. But there's no chocolate. Or cookies."

Tom grunted, as this seemed to call for an acknowledgement.

"Have you ever had a woman demand you bring her cookies? In bed, no less." Wash shook his head and said something in Chinese that Tom didn't catch, although working with Kaylee had given him a solid introduction to some of the language's more vulgar turns of phrase. "You know what kind of a crumb situation that leads to?" He glanced over at Tom and did a double take. "Man, you look like you could use a cookie yourself."

Tom sloshed the liquid around in his cup. "I'm not much for sweets."

The pilot leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. "Girl trouble?" He asked with exaggerated solicitude.

Tom's head came up. "You've been talking to Kaylee." _Who needs to learn to keep her mouth shut._

Wash sputtered laughter. "Oh, wait, _really_? That's actually it? I was completely joking." He sat down across from Tom and folded his hands expectantly. "Please don't tell me you want to talk about it."

"I don't."

Wash forged on regardless. "So who is it? Let's see... the redhead?" He nodded his approval. "I'll tell ya, if I wasn't a married man..."

"Not her."

"Then..." Understanding dawned on the pilot's face. "You and _Kaylee_?!"

_Oh, for Christ's sake_. "No!" Tom just wanted the tiresome guessing game to end. "Sybil," he muttered.

"Ah." Wash raised his eyebrows, remembering that _castle _the family had lived in on the world they'd just left. "And I'm assuming it's a problem that you worked for her father."

Tom chuckled ruefully. "That's an understatement."

"Keep in mind, things are different now," Wash pointed out. "She's not a rich princess anymore."

"She's not like that," Tom said, feeling the need to defend her.

"Look, I know a little something about pursuing an unattainable woman. Persistence, that's the key." Wash wagged his finger. "You just have to wear her down."

"I don't know how much time there'll be for that," Tom said. "We might not even end up in the same place."

"Well, If you really want to be where she is, find a way," Wash urged. "You seem like a pretty resourceful guy. All things considered, she might be smarter to bet on you than to throw in with Rob."

"I'll just have to convince her of that." Tom sighed.

"You'll find a way," Wash said again. "And then your main problem will be having to go back to bed and tell her there aren't any cookies." He stood up to leave.

"Biscuits." Wash turned back with a questioning look. "We say biscuits," Tom said.

The pilot nodded. "I'm telling ya, persistence. It works."

"Right," Tom answered, feeling a bit better in spite of his lingering doubts.

-ooo-

Robert wanted nothing more than to close his eyes: it had been a long day. Maybe tomorrow he would wake to find that all of this had been a terrible nightmare. He kept on waiting for that to happen, and he kept on being disappointed.

However, once the lights were out and the rustlings of people preparing for sleep had been replaced by the background noise of regular breathing and gentle snores, Cora began to whisper her objections to his plan for the family's future. It was unrealistic of him to expect that they could just step into a position like their former one, she said. "What makes you think that people will accept us with open arms? We're strangers here, Robert. We don't know their customs. We don't know how things work."

He reached over in the dark and patted her hand. "My dear, don't worry so much. We'll do just fine."

But she would not be put off with platitudes. "And how are we to live?" She hissed. "We have nothing other than what we carry with us. We need to establish some sort of income."

He cringed, glad that she couldn't see it. "Please don't get American on me. You see to Mary and Sybil's happiness, and I'll take care of everything else."

"I know you don't like to talk about money, but that is a luxury we can no longer afford," Cora argued, her voice sharpening.

"Shh," he admonished. "You'll wake Mary. God knows she needs her rest."

"And we can no longer afford for you to leave me out of your decisions, either," Cora continued, but under her breath. "Darling, you don't have to do this alone. I'm here to help you. And our daughters' happiness will depend very heavily on what we do in the coming days, so you need to _let me help you_."

Robert sighed. Responsibility was a heavy load to bear, especially now. For the hundredth time, he wished Matthew were here. Maybe Cora was right: maybe he should put more trust in her. He had married her fortune and fallen in love with her beauty and charm, but his wife also had iron strength and a level head, attributes he had perhaps never appreciated properly.

As if she sensed him weakening and wanted to seal the deal, Cora nestled her head into the hollow between Robert's neck and shoulder. "And don't forget," she whispered, "It can only be to our advantage that I'm an American, even if it's a sham America. If I'm not mistaken, America is the country from which this civilization springs."

"Partly," Robert corrected.

"Partly. But you must admit that in some cases I just might know what I'm talking about."

"All right," he conceded. He turned his head and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I'll consult you before we settle anything. But let's at least try things my way before we go haring off into the wilderness to become cowboys."

"All right." She raised her head and gave him a kiss, and then another.

"Quiet, darling," he murmured. "We don't want to wake the others."

Quietly, they soothed each other in the best way they knew how.

-ooo-

_Serenity_, Day 6

The staff, what was left of it, dispersed after Mr. Carson's announcement. Elsie Hughes thought they looked for all the world like sheep going through a gap broken in a field wall: not having the slightest idea where they were headed, but needing to escape anyway. She'd tend to them later, but right now she wanted a word with Mr. Carson. _If he thinks he's just going to walk away with no more explanation than he's already given, he's got another think coming_.

She caught him just as he was about to leave the galley. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes? What is it?" He inquired. Unlike some of the others, they had not dispensed with their old titles: they were in perfect agreement that decorum should be maintained.

Mr. Carson's face could be quite expressive. Right now it was saying _Make it fast - I've got important things to do_, though Elsie didn't know what they could possibly be. Now that she had him, she had so many questions she wasn't entirely sure which one to start with, so she began with a statement. "Anna has told me that she and Mr. Bates intend to marry."

Mr. Carson raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? I suppose that makes two we won't have to concern ourselves about."

"Well, not so fast. They'd like to remain with the family."

He heaved a sigh. "Mrs. Hughes, I don't know what the situation will be once we're settled. There may not be places for them."

Was this how it was to be, then? Throwing the excess cargo over the gunwale? Elsie's mouth tightened. "And his lordship's generous offer of freedom, does that apply to you and me as well?" She demanded. "We're to go off and start all over, with nothing but their good wishes?"

Mr. Carson gaped at her as if the thought had never occurred to him. "Well... no..." he sputtered, but Elsie was on a roll.

"I'm not one to demand what I haven't earned," she said, "and I won't claim that they have a responsibility to those in their household. But it does seem rather out of order for Lord and Lady Grantham to just send us away and not even allow us to try and scrape out a living alongside them, when they're our only link with home."

The butler's brow furrowed. "I am quite sure that that is not what his lordship intends."

"Well, then, shouldn't we try to keep places for those who want them? The staff aren't daft, Mr. Carson. They already knew that they wouldn't be getting their wages for a while. But Mr. Bates and Anna - and Daisy, I know that much - still want to stay. Don't you think you should let them?"

"I... suppose so," Mr. Carson conceded.

"Then you'd better discuss it with his lordship as soon as possible, hadn't you?" Elsie said crisply.

His expression softened a bit as he inclined his head in assent. "Am I to assume that you'll soldier on with us as well, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked.

"Oh, I daresay, Mr. Carson. I can't be striking out on my own at my time of life."

-ooo-

The timing was tricky, Sybil thought. Obviously they were least likely to be interrupted in the engine room, but Kaylee did not seem inclined to leave Tom alone there. Sybil was embarrassed enough that she'd behaved like a spoiled child, without having the mechanic witness her apology. So she lurked in the gantries, feeling completely ridiculous, until she saw him pass by after the servants had their luncheon and while Carson and Thomas were clearing and setting the table for the family.

"Psst!" she hissed, and beckoned vigorously for Tom to follow her to a relatively secluded corner where they wouldn't be seen from the hold. Looking infuriatingly amused, he did.

"You know, this looks much more suspicious than just talking to me out in the open," he remarked.

"I won't keep you for long." Sybil wavered for a moment, hardly knowing why._ Just say what you came to say_. "I want to apologize for the way I acted yesterday. And for what I said. It was hurtful and I'm sorry."

Tom looked so gratified that she almost regretted seeking him out. Knowing him, he _would _take honest concern for his feelings as encouragement. But he just said, "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have put pressure on you to make a decision so soon."

Sybil laced her fingers together to give her hands something to do. "It is a difficult decision, you know. You're asking me to give up all that's left of my world."

"Not necessarily. You never know - they might be glad now, to see you paired off with an enterprising bloke such as myself." A smile tugged on the corner of his mouth: he was obviously pleased with himself.

Sybil shook her head ruefully. "If you think that, you don't know Papa and Granny."

"You're right, I don't. But things have changed, Sybil. Completely. And the sooner you all accept that and adapt to it, the better off you'll be."

"I am adapting!" she retorted. "I'm already studying modern medicine. Maybe I'll even go to medical school one day. What do you think of that?" She fixed him with a pugnacious glare. _If he _dares _to make fun, even a little..._

But the expression that came over Tom's face was far from mocking. He looked surprised, certainly, but also admiring and not a little proud. "I think it would be grand," he said. "You'd make a wonderful doctor." Sybil wondered if her own family would be as encouraging if she expressed such an ambition to them.

Abruptly he changed tack. "Mr. Carson cut the staff loose this morning."

Hearing it put that way made Sybil catch her breath. "You make it sound as if he's pushing you all out of the nest. I'm sure Papa just wants you to know that he'll understand if you decide to look for work somewhere else."

He swallowed. "And what if I did go somewhere else? What would you think about that?"

Sybil's stomach clenched and she felt an agitated warmth flood her cheeks. Irrationally, she wanted to put her hand out and touch him, as if that would hold him there. She resisted the impulse and examined the metal grille of the catwalk under her shoes, the floor much farther down. "I think you should do what's best for you." She raised her gaze to find his eyes probing her face. "Of course, I'd miss you terribly," she heard herself say.

His expression softened into a smile. "Then you do care."

_Incorrigible_. She colored more deeply, this time with indignation. "Just because I would miss our conversations, I must be madly in love with you?" The words came out forcefully enough, but Sybil felt somehow that she was slipping, losing the argument in her mind before she spoke.

He grinned broadly at her, but before he could reply they heard footsteps and looked up to see Mary approaching. She was much closer than one would think, with all the echoes in here. It was impossible to tell how much she might have seen or heard.

"Right, then, m'lady," Tom said in an entirely different voice from the one he had been using. "I'm sure I can find some oil for that squeaky hinge."

"Thank you, Branson," Sybil replied, biting the insides of her cheeks to suppress the sudden, inappropriate giggles bubbling up in her throat. Tom turned smartly and moved toward the engine room, dipping his head to Mary as he passed her.

"Good afternoon, m'lady."

"Good afternoon, Branson." Mary turned to watch him go, then looked back at Sybil with a movement that put her in mind of a cat trying to mesmerize its prey. "What was that all about?" Mary's tone was studiously casual, but Sybil knew her sister too well to be fooled.

"Oh," she said with similar carelessness, "one of the cabinet doors in my room makes a dreadful noise when it opens and closes. I asked Branson if I could have something to oil the hinges."

"It looked as though you were talking about more than hinges."

"And what if we were?" Sybil flared. "He's a person. He can discuss things."

Mary raised an elegant eyebrow. "Of course he can. I'm just wondering why you find it necessary to discuss them here. You couldn't have gone looking for him in the engine room? It is his natural place, after all." She smiled thinly.

Sybil lost her temper. "Maybe he has other plans, did you think of that?" she said hotly. "Maybe he'd like to be something other than a mechanic."

Now both of Mary's eyebrows lifted. She raised her hands, showing Sybil her palms. "My goodness, Sybil. There's no need to get so upset."

"Why shouldn't I get upset?" Sybil fumed. "I'm so tired of everyone acting like nothing's changed. Dressing for dinner and acting like we're still above other people... well, things _have _changed, whether we like it or not! And the sooner we accept that, the better off we'll be." She hadn't known how fully she agreed with Tom until his words left her mouth. And despite the terrible losses of Edith and Mrs. Patmore and all the millions of others, Sybil couldn't help feeling a sense of possibility that had never been there in her old life.

Mary, however, did not look as if she felt that way at all. At Sybil's outburst her confident facade deserted her and she sagged. "Oh, darling. Don't you think I know that?" she asked faintly. There were tears in her eyes.

To see her sister show a moment's weakness tugged hard at Sybil's heart. Her anger dissipated, and she reached to take Mary's hands and squeeze them gently. "We will get through this," she promised. "And we will do it together."

-ooo-

_Serenity_, Day 7

"Beg pardon, ma'am. Could I come in?"

Inara Serra pressed her lips together and turned away from her console, where she'd been composing a reply to a client. She'd thought the refugees were at breakfast, but then there always seemed to be at least a few of them wandering around these days. Not for the first time, Inara wondered what had made Mal take them all on. She'd admit he had a few admirable qualities, but altruism wasn't among them. _This must be driving him crazy_.

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," she told the red-haired maid, who had already stepped inside.

"Oh, that's all right. I won't be a moment," Ethel said. "I wanted to ask you something."

Inara swallowed her irritation and gave Ethel a resigned smile. She'd have to keep her shuttle hatch closed in the future, she thought. Or get a _Do Not Disturb_ sign, not that this girl looked as if she'd heed it. "Ask away."

"Would you be needing a lady's maid, ma'am? Only I've noticed you don't have one, and, well - " Ethel glanced around the small but well appointed space - "Lord and Lady Grantham haven't much for me to do anymore."

_You mean they aren't paying you anymore_, Inara thought, but she could sympathize. Why stay with an employer who could no longer provide support? "I prefer to do things for myself," she answered. "I find it's easier that way. But if you'd like, I can ask some of my colleagues if they need anyone. Many of the Companions based on core planets maintain domestic staffs."

"Companions." Ethel's brow furrowed: the word obviously raised her hackles. "Ma'am, I don't like to pry. But..." she trailed off, looking down and twisting her hands together.

Inara took pity on her. "What is it I do, exactly?" Ethel nodded. Inara considered how best to frame it. Give too much detail at once, and the maid would think Companions were no better than common prostitutes. Be too high-flown and euphemistic, and Ethel wouldn't understand, or worse, think Inara was lying. _This is good practice for when the rest of them start to wonder about me_, she thought.

"Basically, being a Companion is just what it sounds like," she said. "I might accompany a client to a formal event or a conference, where I make sure that he - or she - has a good time." So far, so good: Ethel was nodding, seeming to understand. "Or I might just spend time with someone, and we talk and enjoy one another's company." Now the girl looked less certain. Inara tried another tack. "Companions train for years to become skilled in conversation; in the arts, dance, various things. In... seduction."

The word hung in the air a moment, and Inara watched realization widen Ethel's sharp but rather vapid brown eyes. "Oh," was all she said.

"You have to understand," Inara explained with a small smile, "it's a perfectly respectable line of work in the 'verse. Prestigious, even." She squared her shoulders. "In fact, having me on board makes _Serenity _look good." She wondered why she was trying so hard to justify herself; she supposed it was her instinct to make others comfortable.

Ethel's gaze rounded the shuttle again. She began to amble about, fingering objets on the shelves. "So you're more princess than prostitute, then," she commented with a smirk that said, _Aren't I clever_.

Inara drew in a long, silent breath, let it out. "More like professional," she said evenly. "I take my work seriously, and my services are very much sought after."

Ethel looked chastened. "I meant no offense. It's just - we aren't used to - things are different where I'm from."

"No offense taken," Inara replied. "And you're not the first person to imply that what I do isn't completely decent. At least with you, it's coming from an honest place."

"But you really do enjoy it?" Ethel asked curiously. "Being with all those people. Anyone who pays you."

"Actually, it's the Companion that chooses the client. And working this far out, I can be quite particular. There aren't many of us who come out to the Rim."

"And can you not ever marry and have a family?"

Inara's gaze grew unfocused for a moment as her mind wandered, before she remembered that the girl was still waiting for an answer. "A few of us do, after we retire," she said. "And even during their careers, most aren't as nomadic as I am. I just... wanted to see something of the 'verse." She stood up and moved toward the exit, a not-very-subtle indication that the conversation was at an end. Ethel followed. "I'll make some inquiries," Inara promised.

The maid paused just before Inara was going to slide the hatch closed. "That Captain Reynolds," she said with seeming casualness. "Does he have a wife at home?"

Inara was slightly amused at the thought of Mal with a wife - a _real _wife - or a home. "He lives on _Serenity_ full time."

"But he doesn't have a sweetheart?" Ethel pressed. "In port or anything."

"In port? No." Inara felt herself getting tense. _Breathe and smile_. "Mal's very dedicated to the ship. I don't know if..."

"Oh, but any man has needs," Ethel interrupted cheerfully. "And he can't afford you, can he?"

"No." _Breathe out._ The sharp note in Inara's voice seemed to go unnoticed. "He can't."

-ooo-

The day's lesson in modern medical techniques had been informative, if unnerving. River was such an obliging model patient that she'd opened a small gash in her forearm just so Sybil could get some hands-on experience with the laser suturer Simon had picked up on Ariel. The girl seemed unperturbed by the blood still spattered on her clothes as the three of them sat at the table in the galley, talking over protein shakes.

Sybil felt satisfyingly fatigued, almost like she'd actually worked, for the first time since they'd left home. She was ravenous, having missed luncheon, and she sucked at the straw in her glass greedily. "I feel like I'm learning so much," she gushed, "even though I know I've only just scratched the surface." Simon had loaned her his Encyclopedia so she could study, and when she wasn't with him and River she'd been immersed in medical journals and lecture and surgery videos. Amazing. She'd also peeked into the Human History topic on the device, thinking _Tom would love one of these_.

"Well, you're working pretty hard at it," Simon replied. Sybil didn't notice the reservation in his voice. Her mind was full of what she'd just done - a cut sealed up under her hands, almost like it had never been there! How many more of those boys at home could have been saved, if they'd had access to this kind of technology.

"I wonder how long it would take for me to qualify as a nurse here," she mused.

"Depends on where you go," Simon said. "Maybe years on one of the core planets. On a border world with no doctor, they'd probably be grateful to have somebody who knows to wash their hands between patients."

That took her aback. "Really? What a lot of responsibility. I suppose one would be able to help a lot of people that way, though."

"Maybe," Simon said, "if you have the supplies and medicines you need. If you don't - which is usually the case - you're just watching people die of dysentery or malaria along with everyone else."

Sybil wondered what had happened to him to turn his outlook so bleak. "Well, Papa says he wants to live somewhere civilized." She wasn't sure whether she was glad or sorry about that; the frontier sounded exciting, but dying of dysentery didn't. "I think I'd like to go to nursing school. Maybe even medical school."

River let out a sudden guffaw, making Sybil jump. But she was growing accustomed to the girl's quirks. "Is that funny?" she asked, confused. It couldn't be her sex: just this morning she'd watched a woman doctor perform surgery on Simon's Encyclopedia, as lifelike as if it were happening right there in the room.

River continued to giggle, but it seemed forced, her eyes devoid of humor. "Medical school," she managed. "Fat lot of good that did my brother."

Simon looked pained. "River..."

"Top of his class," River murmured. "And look where he is now. Riding a bucket of bolts into the black." She had stopped laughing, but she flashed an ironic smile before rising from the table. "I'm gonna go look out the windows." She drifted off toward the bridge.

Sybil's gaze followed her until the hatch closed behind her. "Has she always been..." She trailed off, abashed. She'd spoken before she thought.

"Like this?" Simon finished for her.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay. And no, she hasn't." Simon cleared his throat. "Growing up, she was brilliant. Much smarter than me. This, the way she is... it was done to her."

Sybil wanted to tell him again that she had not meant to poke her nose into his family's business, that he didn't have to talk about it. Clearly it was a painful subject. But the words died in her throat as he told her that he and River came from a wealthy, prominent family, and about the special school his sister had been invited to attend. How they'd all been so proud, and how Simon's pride had turned to confusion and then dread as her letters grew less frequent and more strange, even as their parents refused to believe anything was wrong. He told her about rescuing River from that hellish place, and the state she'd been in, and the ruthless measures the Alliance had taken to try and get her back.

Sybil was silent for a moment once he finished. She was not a cynical person, but almost three years of war and many political discussions with Tom in the garage had engendered in her a healthy skepticism about the intentions of government. But _this _- keeping a young girl captive, twisting her into psychosis for no clear purpose - this was beyond the pale.

"So you've been hiding from them all this time."

He grimaced. "Pretty much."

"And you'd never been in trouble before?"

"I was pretty much the definition of a model citizen." he smiled acidly. "I was also an entitled son of a bitch, but that's neither here nor there."

Sybil considered that for a moment. The lure of comfort and security was strong: she could see that in her father's actions. To throw it away would require great conviction, or else the knowledge that you had no other option.

Simon seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts. "The thing is... the Alliance, it's light and knowledge and comfort. It's... _civilization_," Simon said. "But after what they did to River... now I know that it's got a dark side, too. It'll stop at nothing to further what it sees as its own interests." He looked down at his hands, opening and closing in front of him.

"But it's not an _it_," Sybil countered. "It's made up of people. You make it sound like some sort of... machine or monster or something."

"You know, there were a lot of individuals involved in what happened to my sister," he said. "Any one of them could have helped her. Could have stopped it. But none of them did." He looked her in the eye. "It'd be nice if the Alliance let you and your family start a comfortable new life on Persephone or somewhere. But just so you know, that's very unlikely."

Sybil's heart began to beat faster. She was not convinced that Papa's plan to assimilate into society was sensible, but she had never considered that it might be dangerous.

* * *

_AN #2: Coming up next chapter: Matthew!_


	7. Chapter 7: More Questions Than Answers

_IAV Wang Dayuan, _2517 (Day 8)

Matthew opened his eyes. This time, they did not immediately fall shut again: he felt groggy, but there was none of the heaviness as before. His pupils contracted painfully in the bright light before the blue and white blurs around him resolved into objects: blanket, footboard, chair, curtain. He was alone, lying in a bed in a small curtained-off space.

He didn't notice he was restrained until he tried to lift his hands and found his wrists bound by wide bands of fuzzy webbing. There was a tube coming out of a needle set in the back of his hand, another in his nose, and one snaking out the neckline of the shapeless shirt he wore. He gave the webbing an experimental tug: it didn't budge. His legs, he found, would not move at all. He began to feel quite frightened, and a high-pitched pulsing sound he hadn't noticed before started to speed up, increasing in tempo along with his pounding heart.

Matthew took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Would the _meep-meep-meep_ bring someone - a nurse perhaps? Did he even want anyone to come? The restraints could possibly be therapeutic, he thought, but it was more likely that he was a prisoner. It was all coming back to him. Paris - the interminable dinner - walking back to headquarters with William - where was William? - the barbarian invasion. Coming across the ship and barging onto it. Being shot.

How long had he been unconscious? Matthew swallowed, his mouth furred and sour. It felt like a while, but he couldn't be sure. He soon gave up trying to put together the broken pieces of the last several days in his head. He'd been sure he'd seen his mother, heard her voice, but that must have been a dream brought on by whatever drugs they'd been pumping him full of.

He heard the muted _thwack _of rubber-soled shoes and the curtain surrounding his bed was pushed aside, the rings scraping against the rod loudly enough to make Matthew wince. A woman entered, wearing loose, light-blue trousers and a baggy shirt of the same color, the lower part of her face masked. She inspected Matthew's tubes without looking him in the eye or speaking to him, then turned to a bank of machines at the side of the bed. It was from one of these that the beeping issued.

"Miss," he tried to say, but it came out as a voiceless rasp. He cleared his throat. "Miss. Could you tell me where I am?" Her body jerked a little when she heard his voice, but she stopped herself from looking over. "Could you unbind my hands, please?" She studiously ignored him, fingertips flying over the surface of the screen, eyes focused on whatever she was seeing there. Then she walked out without a backward glance.

Matthew's mind raced. At the moment, his fate seemed to be in the hands of his captors, whoever they were. But it could be worse: they hadn't killed him yet. On the contrary, they were giving him medical treatment. He'd just have to keep calm and look sharp for his opportunity to escape.

_And go where?_ The thought came from the shrinking, fearful depths of his mind. He thought of those ships alighting all over Paris. He couldn't still be in the city. Maybe they'd taken him to some country hospital? But this was not like any hospital he'd ever seen.

He heard another set of footsteps approaching, these as sharply defined as the nurse's had been muffled. They echoed toward his closed curtain, and again it was moved aside.

His jaw dropped.

"Hello, Matthew," his mother said.

-ooo-

_Serenity_, Day 8

Mary was fuming. It was almost good to feel fury bubbling in her stomach, when there had been a cold stone of dread lodged there for so many days. Mama and Papa had just told them that, while the ship would be in port for two days, she and Sybil might not get to leave it at all.

But as ever, she expressed her anger with control.

"I can't believe you're going to keep us cooped up here," she snapped at her mother. "You know very well that we're all going mad. I believe I've been wearing a path on the catwalk."

"Until we know what we're dealing with, it is simply not safe for you and Sybil to leave the ship," Cora answered. Her face was set in lines of determination: when Mama looked like that, Mary knew it was futile to take her on directly. Better to work on her over a period of days.

Mary couldn't resist rolling her eyes, however. "Honestly, Mama. What do you think we're going to do? Wander into the red-light district?" Her mother's eyes widened in disapproval. "We just want a bit of fresh air," she continued in a more civil tone.

"I should like to see something of the place where we might live," Sybil piped up, earning a grateful glance from her sister.

"From what Captain Reynolds has told me, Persephone city can be overwhelming to the uninitiated," Robert said. "Quite dirty and unpleasant in places. I doubt we will settle in such a densely populated area; we just need to make use of the contacts the captain has there." He smiled indulgently at his daughters. "So you see, there's no value for you in seeing the place at all, really."

"It sounds like Calcutta," Violet sniffed from her seat. "And believe me, one visit _there _was enough."

Mary sighed: they were missing the whole point. "It can't be any worse than London," she argued, but the sight of the three of them ranged like a brick wall in front of her was disheartening. She threw up her hands and rose to her feet. "I'm going for a walk. Again." As regally as she could, she climbed the stairs to the catwalk.

The others watched her go. There was a moment's silence before Sybil got up and left as well, muttering something about making sure she was all right.

As soon as her youngest was out of earshot, Cora said, "Robert, are you quite sure the girls can't come out with us once you've finished with our business? Only it's the first time since we left home that I've seen Mary express interest in anything at all." _The first time since Edith_, she added silently.

Robert looked pained. "Don't you start too, darling. I really think the best thing for all of you is to stay on board, for your own safety. And that includes the staff." He shook his head ruefully. "Though I know I can't order them to, not anymore."

"I imagine some of the servants are getting as restless as the girls," Violet said. "Ethel and Branson have been looking awfully twitchy, to say nothing of Thomas. You should thank your lucky stars that O'Brien has no plans to leave you, Cora."

O'Brien spoke up from behind Cora, who hadn't even realized she was there. "I shall be happy to stay on board in case you need anything, m'lady."

"Thank you, O'Brien," Cora said. "Robert, I wish you would at least consider an outing. I think it would do us all a world of good."

"I'll think about it," Robert replied. "But I want to get the lay of the land first. If it seems safe, then perhaps."

Cora sighed. "Perhaps" was what her husband said when he wanted to delay an inevitable _No_.

-o-

Mary heard Sybil's unmistakable sprightly tread behind her and turned with an inward sigh. _If she really wanted to help, she could have fought our corner harder_. She was surprised Sybil hadn't been more adamant about wanting to go out, really; it seemed like the kind of thing she'd be keen on. Mary wondered if there was something her sister wasn't telling her. She was thick as thieves lately with the chauffeur and that medic both. Mary would have to have a talk with her.

But just now she only wanted to be alone. "Darling, you didn't have to come up here."

"I wanted to make sure you were all right," Sybil said. "We've all been wound so tightly these last few days."

"Well, I'm not going to throw myself over the railing, if that's what you're worried about." Mary gave her a small smile.

Sybil smiled back. "That's a relief. Simon would probably make me treat your injuries, and I still don't feel I know what I'm doing with all those devices."

"Speaking of Simon, darling..." Mary's protective instincts overtook her desire for solitude. "You've been spending a lot of time together, haven't you?" The look on her sister's face confirmed that _something _was going on: Sybil's cheeks turned pink, and she was trying not to smile and failing.

But all she said was, "He's just getting me up to speed."

"Are you sure that's all it is? On his side, if not yours?"

"It's awfully nice of him to make such an effort with me, isn't it? But I'm quite sure," Sybil said, still blushing.

_My goodness_, Mary thought, _Sybil finally has a crush on someone_. She supposed a doctor was better than what she had suspected when she'd come upon her sister and Branson in the gantries, their heads a foot apart. "Well, God knows you can use whatever distraction you can get," she allowed. "Just don't do anything stupid."

"I won't," Sybil promised. "Mary..." She trailed off, growing solemn.

"What is it?" Mary asked. All of a sudden Sybil looked as if she were thinking of something much less pleasant than handsome young medics.

Sybil shook her head and smiled again, though not as brilliantly as before. "Nothing. Don't worry, we'll find a way to get past Mama and Papa. We'll go exploring whether they like it or not."

"We'd better. Or I just may jump off the catwalk after all," Mary replied, but she smiled as she said it.

-o-

Mary had been more right than she knew: Sybil was absolutely itching to get off the ship. But Simon's account of what had happened to him and River made her want to go to her cabin, lock the door and hide her head under the pillow. She'd come within a hair's breadth of telling Mary the whole thing, but realized in time that she couldn't possibly burden her with it. As soon as she left Mary, she found her steps turning toward the engine room. She had to talk to someone.

Tom was alone, for a wonder. He looked up and smiled as she came in. "Hello."

"Hello." She felt rather shy, now that she was here, thinking of how they'd left it last time they talked. _I must be madly in love with you_.

"Your sister hasn't given you what for about getting too familiar with the chauffeur, then?" he looked amused, though a little apprehensive as well.

She laughed. "No. But you aren't the chauffeur anymore, are you?"

"Something tells me I'll always be the chauffeur to Lady Mary."

"Actually, she thinks I've got a crush on Simon." Sybil offered it almost in jest.

"Do you?" His eyes arrowed into hers; he wasn't one to look away while asking the sharp questions.

"Of course not! But if she thinks I fancy _him_, she won't suspect _us _of anything, will she?" Tom positively beamed when she said that. It was confusing. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because that's the first time you've said _us_. And because you're much more of a sneak than I thought."

"Well, don't read too much into it," Sybil returned, twitching her shoulders. "Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about that. Simon told me something yesterday, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since." She told him the Tams' story from beginning to end with as much detail as she could recall, which was quite a lot: it was practically burned into her brain. When she had finished with River's ordeal in the school, she related what Simon had said about the likelihood that the Alliance and their corporate partner would allow the refugees from Downton to begin their new lives in peace.

"What would they do to us, I wonder," Tom said. The last of his smile had faded long ago and he had started to pace, wringing an oil-stained rag.

"I don't know." Sybil shivered. "I'd rather not find out."

He stopped and looked at her, his eyes wide in that piercing stare he got sometimes. "We should tell your father."

"We?" Sybil imagined herself and Tom, going to Papa with a completely mad story about a young girl being tortured by her own government. _He can just ask Papa for my hand in marriage while we're about it_, _it'll save time_. She almost laughed at the thought of the look on her father's face. "Tom, I don't think he'll listen to us."

"Then we'll get Simon to talk to him. Or Captain Reynolds - anyone who can make him see reason." Tom ran a hand through his hair. "If he's truly planning on settling the family in the open, he could be walking us all straight into a trap."

"I think the captain's already tried to convince Papa to move to one of the outer worlds," Sybil said. "He seems quite set on living on a core planet."

"Well, then, we'll have to figure out a way to get him unset." Tom began pacing again, then abruptly changed course to come over and stand before her. "Just promise me you won't go with them if it'll put you in danger. Please," he said softly. That intense gaze moved over her again: she could almost feel its warmth physically.

"I can't promise anything of the sort!" Sybil cried. "For now at least, I have to go where my family does."

He looked crestfallen, but to Sybil's relief he did not bring up the proposal again. He just shook his head, at a loss for words for once.

-ooo-

_IAV Wang Dayuan_

Matthew couldn't speak; he couldn't even close his mouth. _It _was _her_, he thought wildly. _It was her voice I heard_. He looked her up and down, trying to confirm that it was indeed Isobel Crawley, that there wasn't some trickery at work. She was dressed differently than usual, in a dark blouse and trousers and a white coat, but there was her dun-colored hair, swept neatly into waves framing her face. There were her hands, slightly wrinkled but white, the nails kept short as ever: she'd always said hands were meant to be instruments, not ornaments. She stood with her back straight and feet turned slightly out, letting them take her weight equally. But it was her eyes and the sensible set of her mouth that convinced him. She looked at him as she always did: lovingly, but not indulgently. Right now her gaze held just a tinge of worry.

"I know you must have questions," she said, seating herself in the dark-blue chair beside his bed. "And we'll get to them." She reached out and laid her hand over his, the one without the needle stuck in. "But our first priority is to make you well again."

Matthew swallowed. She was right: he did have questions. They teemed through his brain, trampling each other on their way to his mouth so that none of them could make it there. Finally he managed to repeat the one he'd asked the silent nurse: "Where are we?"

"On the _IAV Wang Dayuan_," Isobel said, which meant nothing to Matthew. "It's a large transport vessel," she elaborated, "like a city almost, really." He knew he must be gawping at her like a landed trout. She sighed. "Matthew, I'm afraid I'll need to start at the beginning if you're to understand at all. And it's quite a long story."

Matthew pulled against his wrist restraints with a rueful smile, the first that had touched his face since he woke up. "I appear not to be going anywhere. Any chance you could loosen these?" He nodded at them.

Isobel glanced over her shoulder. "I'm afraid not," she said in an undertone. "Security insisted on them, as a condition of allowing you in this facility instead of putting you on lockdown."

"So I am a prisoner, then."

"Just until we get everything straightened out."

"And William?"

Isobel's face closed. "I'm working to address his situation." It was plain she didn't want to say any more about it now. "Are you feeling any pain?"

"I can't feel much of anything below the waist," Matthew answered.

"Good. The nerve block is working, then. That's why you can't move your legs; they're waiting for the swelling to go down a bit more before they continue to treat your injuries. But you should make a full recovery."

"Mother - "

"Would you like something to eat? You've been getting nutrition through your IV, but it might be good for you to start eating with your mouth again."

Matthew shook his head vigorously; it made him a little dizzy. "Mother, _what is going on?_"

She looked at him carefully; she seemed to be making an assessment. Finally she sighed. "All right." She folded her hands and squared her shoulders. "Matthew, the world you grew up in, the world we've been living in all your life... none of it's real."

He couldn't help but laugh. "What? Of course it is. I remember it, I was there."

She shook her head. "I don't mean that it was all a dream, or something like that. The entire planet was a laboratory, and the societies there were constructed by many teams of researchers. Of which I am one." She looked down at her interlaced fingers. "Your father was as well."

In a few brief sentences, his mother had given him more information than he could possibly digest. _The entire planet... none of it's real... societies constructed by researchers... _Matthew swallowed with a bone-dry throat and immediately began to cough.

Isobel poured a cup of water from the nightstand and offered it along with a look of deep concern. "I know it's a lot to take in all at once."

Matthew took a long swallow of water and managed to stop coughing. "You've said we're on a ship, but where are we headed?" The ship must be large indeed, he thought; he did not feel any of the rolling motion that was usual on a sea voyage.

There was a long pause before she told him, "Matthew, we're going to another planet. We're in outer space." She said it almost apologetically, as if she knew he wouldn't believe it.

And he didn't, not until he thought of the heavily armored air-ship he and William had boarded and its dizzying rise straight up into the air. So fast it had knocked him off balance and resulted in their capture.

"And one other thing: it's not 1917," his mother continued somewhere on the edge of his hearing. "The year now is 2517."

After hearing that they were in outer space, this hardly even came as a shock.

"Are you all right?" Isobel asked.

Deep in Matthew's mind a little madman grinned, gibbered, foamed at the mouth. On the surface, though, Matthew gave his mother a small reassuring smile. "As well as can be expected, I suppose. I'm glad you're here."

"Me as well," she returned warmly, squeezing his hand. "What luck that you managed to get onto the transport. Matthew, you must know I was frantic when I heard we were evacuating. And then when I tried to get in contact with you, you'd gone on leave. I would never have left you there willingly."

"I know that, Mother." He was sure there was much more to know, but he didn't have the energy just now to ask the right questions... or to understand the answers, he suspected.

"I don't want to tire you," Isobel said. "We can talk more later." She began to rustle about in her chair, and Matthew felt a bright burst of alarm.

"Please don't leave me," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Of course I won't." She settled herself more comfortably. "But now you should get some rest." She pressed a button that summoned the nurse, who injected something into his IV that immediately started making him feel warm and sleepy.

"Matthew?" he heard her say softly, just before he drifted off.

"Mmm?"

"I'm very, very proud of you."


	8. Chapter 8: Persephone, Part 1

_Serenity_, Eavesdown Docks, Persephone (Day 10)

The others had gone to sleep in space and they would wake up in port, but Thomas had not closed his eyes since he felt _Serenity _touch down in the night. He'd not realized how loud she was in flight until he became aware of the _absence _of noise. It pressed against his ears, making him strain them for any sound, keeping him wakeful. And of course he had today's task to occupy his mind.

By the time the glowing ruby numbers on the bedside clock read _0600 _he'd given up trying to get back to sleep. He turned on the lamp, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and smoked half a cigarette. Then he got up and dressed in his uniform, the only suit he had. He'd been sleeping in his underclothes and washing them out in the bathroom sink, bathing every day so he wouldn't get ripe. No one had offered to lend him any clothes and he wasn't going to ask.

He'd entertained thoughts of slipping out into the city before anyone else woke up, then realized he had no idea how to get off the ship. Oh, well. Cup of tea, then.

The corridor was dim and silent. The running lights guided him through the infirmary and into the cavern of the hold, where he tiptoed up the stairs to avoid disturbing the snorers. Most likely the crew would be up and about before the family, and he could leave before anyone noticed he was gone.

He hadn't planned on Daisy. There she was in the galley, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and putting the kettle on. "Oh, hullo, Thomas," she greeted him carelessly. He could remember a time when she'd have fallen over her own feet in terrified adoration at being in a room alone with him, but now she barely even looked up. After a few minutes she sat down with two steaming cups, sliding one across the table towards him.

"Dunno why I can't make myself lie in," she remarked. "It's not as if there's the fires to make or the range to feed. Or much to do at all, really."

"Old habits die hard, I suppose," Thomas said.

"I'll just be glad when we stop somewhere for good and there's a new house to set up," Daisy confessed. "I don't know what to do with myself here. Me and Anna and Mrs. Hughes, we've already cleaned the ship top to bottom. She needed it, too, I don't mind telling you."

Thomas wondered what Captain Reynolds thought of having a lot of women dusting and scrubbing around him, clucking at the state of his ship. He'd probably taken it about as gracefully as a British Army captain would have accepted housemaids in the trenches. "Ethel's not working anymore, then?" he asked.

Daisy rolled her eyes. "She acts like she is, but mostly she follows us around and jaws on about getting taken on at a great house after we land. She won't let the door hit her on the way out, that one."

The hatch from the crew quarters slid open and Zoe came in, followed by Wash. Thomas and Daisy jumped to their feet, prompting bemused looks from the couple.

"Good morning," Thomas said heartily.

"Morning," Zoe answered, raising an eyebrow. Wash just grunted and shuffled over to the coffeemaker.

"Mrs. Washburn, might I prevail upon you to open the hatch to the outside, now we've reached our destination?" Thomas gave the woman his most winning smile.

Her eyebrow crept higher. "You got somewhere to be this early?"

His lips remained upturned, but Thomas allowed the expression to leave his eyes: this usually unnerved people into doing what he wanted them to. Zoe, however, did not seem impressed. "Just feeling a bit hemmed in," he finally offered.

She stared at him a moment longer before giving an abbreviated nod. "Okay," she said. "Just make sure you're back here before oh-nine-hundred day after tomorrow. We lift off then, with or without you."

"Of course. I'll just get my things."

"Don't hurry yourself," she called after him. "I don't move 'til I finish my coffee."

He met her at the hatch twenty minutes later, the valise heavy in his hand. She raised her eyebrows again and glanced down at it, but he could practically hear her thinking _None of my business_. Thomas got the feeling Zoe didn't miss much.

He was unprepared for the emotion he felt when the golden morning light slid up the extending gangway and into his face: there were tears in his eyes, and not just from having the sun in them. His hands shook a little when he reached for the half cigarette he'd stowed behind his ear and Zoe regarded him with some sympathy. "Nice to see the sun come up again, isn't it," she said. "Even if it ain't your own." He nodded in reply, lit up, and started down.

"Hey," she called after him, and he turned. "Be careful out there." Thomas nodded again and walked off.

-ooo-

Robert tried not to stare as they threaded their way along the pavement, but there were a few individuals of such resplendent strangeness that he couldn't help it. He actually turned to look at one man who went by wearing long robes of electric-blue brocade, with a bright pink beard that flowed down his chest and a bald head as shiny as a peeled egg.

Zoe nudged him from behind. "That's the wrong sort to be gawkin' at," she hissed, and he hurried after Wash and Captain Reynolds without comment. He was learning that sometimes it was better not to ask questions.

Reynolds dropped back to speak with him. "So, Rob, you got any more ideas about where you might want to touch down permanent-like?" As Robert had requested, Mal had briefed him on the likely core worlds. Robert couldn't help but notice that the captain had also pointed out some that were farther out and had economies focused on agriculture, but he'd held his tongue, taking the advice in the spirit in which it was offered.

"We'd better see what price we can command for our goods first," Robert replied. "Then we'll know how much money we have to work with." On _Serenity _he'd told himself that his family's transition into their new home would be smooth, and that with a bit of luck they would rise. Now, in this grimy, neon-lit place, surrounded by careworn people who jostled him as indifferently as they did everyone else, he was not so sure.

"Well, we'll be making a stop on Pelorum, so you-all will be able to check it out. Seems Ethel's got herself a job interview," Mal said.

"How enterprising of her," Robert said faintly. His second housemaid was getting her life together more quickly than he was.

"Yep, the Companions' Guild House there needs a maid," Mal went on. "And your girl Ethel got Inara to put in a good word for her."

Robert had had little contact so far with Inara, other than noticing that her shoulders were frequently on display. His overriding impression of her was that she looked no better than she should be, and he hoped Ethel knew what she was about. _It's out of my hands now_, he thought helplessly, _like nearly everything else_.

Robert hated this feeling. At Downton he'd been important because he was the earl, the capstone of the pyramid. He'd never professed to love power, but then he'd never been without it. The Reavers had taken it all away: his home, his position, even his view of himself as a competent man who could be trusted to take care of those who depended on him. For God's sake, he hadn't even been able to save his dog. Captain Reynolds had flatly refused to have Isis aboard _Serenity,_ and in any event she'd disappeared soon after the excitement started, no doubt spooked by the unaccustomed activity and the smell of fear. Robert wondered how she fared. It didn't matter: if the Reavers hadn't gotten her, the bombs would, and Isis would become just one more of the lives he'd failed to save. What upset him only slightly less, though, was the thought that he might always be what he was now: a nobody, impotent, adrift in a universe he could not hope to understand.

These were the thoughts that dogged him as they made their way into the marketplace, which bustled with even more people than had been near the ship. The tents drew in on either side and hundreds of shuffling feet kicked up thick dust, shot through with whatever beams of sunlight could penetrate the gaps in the awnings. Makeshift stalls bristled with goods of every possible description: Robert couldn't have guessed at the use of half the items for sale. The proprietors grinned and spoke to him, presumably urging him to try their wares, but most of the time it didn't even sound like they were speaking English.

He ignored them and shook his head clear. Even though Captain Reynolds had said to let him do the talking, Robert thought he'd best be on his toes for the negotiations. Presently they turned into an entryway and emerged into a dim space crowded with strong men half run to fat. They had arrived.

Badger - an unkempt chap who spoke in a Cockneyesque drawl - looked thoroughly disreputable to Robert's eyes. _What did you expect?_ He asked himself. _He _is _a criminal_. Robert realized with a shock that he himself was as well, or at least whatever law existed here would probably see it that way.

The captain and the kingpin exchanged pleasantries, though it was obvious that the two men had little affection for each other. Reynolds had told Robert that he didn't trust Badger: "He's about twice as likely to put something over on you as give you a square deal" was the way he'd put it. But Robert needed money, and their options were few.

"Give us a butcher's at the _zāngwù _then," Badger said, beckoning, and Robert laid out his wife's jewelry (_the girls' birthright_, he thought bitterly) on the table. Badger's eyebrows twitched upward and he jerked his chin to one of his lieutenants, who disappeared momentarily and returned with a bespectacled man who looked like he'd been born cringing.

Spectacles set to his task. Robert watched his hands, with their halfmoons of grime under the nails, turning over Cora's brooches and earrings. They ran down the chain of her favorite lavalier to assess its gauge and Robert felt sick. The man's face stayed as still as stone, but Robert detected something like excitement in the eyes behind the small smoked-glass ovals. "Hm, hm, nineteenth, twentieth century," Spectacles muttered, before Badger made a zipping noise to shut him up. Robert could feel Mal and Zoe's eyes on him, urging him to refrain from speaking. They needn't have worried: the assessment was accurate as far as Robert was concerned.

The appraiser quickly sorted the items into three lots. After a time he nodded and murmured something inaudible to Badger, and then he faded into the background.

Badger addressed Robert. "Where'd you come by all this?" He sounded more interested in finding out whether Robert had an answer ready than in the answer itself.

"Most of it has been in my and my wife's families." Another accurate statement.

The boss pointed to the smallest pile. "Can't use them," he said. He indicated a bigger one. "Twenty-eight hundred platinum for that lot."

Reynolds shook his head. "'S worth at least twice that."

Badger gave him a sardonic smile. "It's not what it's worth that's in question; it's what I'll give you for it."

"Five thousand."

"Thirty-six. That's my final offer."

Reynolds caught Robert's eye and, seeing him give a small nod, assented. "And the rest of it?" Mal pointed to the third pile, which contained several of the most valuable pieces.

Badger's eyes cut over to Robert's, then back to the table. "Right pretty, those. But I'll need a mite more time with them before I can name a price.""

"Don't tell me you're expecting us to just leave a mess of jewels on you with no security," Mal scoffed.

Badger put on an expression of mock hurt. "Why, Captain. I thought we'd built up a relationship of trust."

"Trust but verify, I always say," Reynolds returned.

Badger shrugged. The gesture was casual, but Robert noticed again just how many men - presumably with guns - there were in the room. "If you think I'm going to nick it, feel free to take it back with you."

Reynolds looked at Robert again and held up one finger: _give us a minute_. He took Robert aside. "I figured he'd pull something like this," he muttered.

"Do you think he's honest?" Robert spoke in an undertone, but he could feel Badger's bright eyes on him, as sharp as those of his namesake.

The other man actually laughed. "Honest? Hell, no. Will he pay you what you're owed? It's possible. But I don't know too many other guys who deal in these kind of gimcracks - no offense - and I'll tell you right now, I don't have the time to shop your _xiǎo zhuāng shì pǐn_ all over the 'verse for you. We all gotta make a living." Reynolds shrugged, a trifle defensively.

"Well, then there's nothing for it," Robert sighed. "We'll have to trust him." And hope this wasn't the last they'd see of Cora's emerald earrings.

They moved back to the front of the room. "Very well, Mr. Badger," Robert said, "I will leave these with you to be appraised." He began to gather up the rejected items.

"Good man. We'll see you tomorrow, then?" Robert nodded and Badger gestured to one of his men, who stepped up to hand Robert a rather small but quite heavy sack that _chinked _with what must be coins. Wash promptly relieved him of the money and stuffed something soft in with it to stop the rattling. "_Hǎo_," Badger said. "Come at teatime."

-ooo-

Tom sat cross-legged on his pallet in the hold, making a journal entry and pretending not to listen to the ladies' conversation. That was easier here than it had been when he drove them: being visually separated from them meant he didn't have to worry about controlling his face. It was also more likely to yield interesting information, as they seemed to forget so easily that there were others in the room. Out of sight, out of mind.

None of what he'd learned so far was very comforting. Apparently Captain Reynolds and his lieutenants had taken Lord Grantham to turn the Crawley family jewels into cash; tomorrow his Lordship would be inquiring into business opportunities and available real estate in the White Sun system. So either Sybil had not taken it upon herself to talk to her father, or he hadn't listened to her.

"I'm not sure about this at all," Lady Grantham was complaining to her mother-in-law. "This associate of Captain Reynolds' sounds rather disreputable. They call him _Badger_. What kind of a name is that?"

"My dear, your options are few and getting fewer," returned Old Lady Grantham. "I'm afraid beggars cannot be choosers."

Lady Grantham sighed. "I suppose not."

Female laughter drifted in along with a breeze from the airlock, where Ethel and Kaylee had set up a couple of folding chairs and were taking their ease. Sybil said, "I think I'd like to go and get some air. Certainly that's safe enough?" Tom wondered that Lady Grantham did not hear the guile in her daughter's voice. Apparently she gave her permission, though, because the next thing he heard was Sybil's feet shuffling as she rose. "Mary, will you come with me?"

"It sounds lovely," Mary answered, and their shoes clicked away across the floor.

A few minutes went by. Tom scribbled a line or two. A few more minutes passed, and he shut his notebook and rose to his feet. He wasn't following them, he told himself; he just wanted to say hello to Kaylee and Ethel. Besides, a look at the sky would do him good. And while he was out there, it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on whatever the Crawley sisters might be up to.

-ooo-

Kaylee wore a dress that day and left her hair down, even put on a little makeup. She could always change for the supply run, and she liked getting dolled up. Anyway, who knew what the day would bring? Maybe she'd see if Simon wanted to head into town later, just for fun.

In the galley she found Ethel sitting at the table with a cup of tea. "What are you up to today?" she asked brightly. Kaylee hadn't spent much time with Ethel - or any of the 'fugees other than Tom, for that matter - but she got the sense that she was kind of an odd screw, not really seeming to belong anywhere. She hadn't made a very good impression on Inara, that was for sure. But then Inara could be awfully judgmental sometimes.

Ethel shrugged. "I've got no plans." She gave Kaylee a little smile.

Kaylee decided she might as well make a new friend. "You should come outside with me," she said. Sitting outside the airlock was one of Kaylee's favorite ways to spend a morning when _Serenity _was in port. You could watch a pretty good slice of the 'verse go by without having to leave your seat.

Ethel looked doubtful. "They told me it's not safe to go into the city."

"You don't have to go anywhere if you don't want to. I'm just gonna sit outside a spell before I head out to re-up on supplies. C'mon, It's great people-watching," Kaylee coaxed.

"All right then," Ethel said. Fifteen minutes later there they were with their feet up, enjoying the indirect morning sun and watching Eavesdown go about its business. Ethel started out a little shy but she soon loosened up, and by midmorning she and Kaylee were chattering away like old friends about the looks and fashion choices of the passersby. Being at the docks, there was no shortage of strapping male specimens to giggle over.

"Ooh, I'd love to get him into my bunk," Kaylee remarked after one went by, his well-defined pectorals rippling under his thin shirt. She craned her neck to get a better look at the way he filled out the seat of his pants.

Ethel looked shocked, though her half-smile gave Kaylee a notion that the other girl was putting some of it on for her benefit. "You can do that?"

"Well, yeah. Who's gonna stop me?"

Ethel chewed on that for a minute. "It really is different here, isn't it," she mused.

"Not that I take men to bed all the time or anything," Kaylee hastened to say. She didn't mention her half-formed hopes for herself and Simon. Ethel was nice and all, but she seemed like a bit of a blabbermouth.

The sun was more than halfway to its apex and Kaylee was thinking about going to get her shopping list when Jayne sauntered out, still yawning and rubbing his face. He nodded to the two women. "Ladies." Fueled by an hour of ogling, Ethel threw him a flirtatious grin, and Jayne took the bait eagerly. "Mind if I pop a squat?" He installed himself at Ethel's side and returned her smile with a crooked one of his own. Kaylee rolled her eyes. Jayne could be charming to the unwary, and "unwary" was this girl to a T. _I better not leave them alone quite yet,_ she thought.

The three sat together, but Kaylee was mostly left to her own thoughts as Jayne and Ethel got to know each other better. Jayne said something to Ethel in a low voice that made her laugh uproariously and Kaylee started thinking again about getting in to market. Those spare parts weren't going to buy themselves.

Footsteps clicked down the hatchway behind them. Kaylee pegged them almost instantly: women, young, two pairs, either the other two maids or the daughters. The well-bred accents of Mary Crawley confirmed the latter. "What a lovely morning," she remarked. No matter how broke her daddy might be now, there was plenty of coin in that voice.

Ethel and Jayne both rocketed to their feet, but for different reasons. "Beg pardon, your ladyships," Ethel murmured, all her former easiness gone. "I'll just see if Mrs. Hughes wants me." She lifted her skirts and hustled up the ramp before Mary or Sybil could speak.

"She didn't have to go," Sybil said, looking regretful. She seemed like a good enough sort. She and Kaylee hadn't spoken since Sybil and Tom's argument in the engine room, but Kaylee had a notion that her witnessing their little tiff wasn't the only reason Sybil was distant to her. A tiny bit of her good mood drained away; she hated feeling like people didn't like her.

_Kill 'em with kindness_, she thought, standing up and giving the sisters a welcoming smile. "You're welcome to my seat," she said. "It's past time for me to go on a supply run. The good deals'll all have been snapped up!" She stretched a couple of kinks out of her legs.

With Ethel gone, Jayne oiled on over to Mary's side. He'd taken a shine to her and no mistake: _Ethel who?_ But even though Mary talked to him civil enough, one look at her would tell you that Jayne was doomed to disappointment. He was about as not-her-type as a guy could get.

Sybil ignored the chairs and walked a little farther down the gangway to take in the bustling port. "It's so busy," she marveled. She turned to her sister with a bold look. "Let's go for a walk. We'll come back before they know we're gone." Her eyes were drawn back into the ship, behind Kaylee, and she smiled. "Hello, Branson."

Tom emerged from the airlock and made his greetings. To Kaylee he said, "You look different," and she noticed Sybil's eyes cut over; Kaylee wondered if he'd seen it. Most likely he had. He was probably enjoying what he thought was their little rivalry. _Men_. She couldn't blame him for being a mite cocky, though. He was _shuai_ as all-get-out, especially in that suit.

Jayne spoke up. "I'd be happy to show you girls around, if you're wanting to get a bit of local color." Kaylee's mouth almost fell open. Jayne as tour guide? Where was her sardonic, self-interested shipmate?

Mary was suddenly all smiles. "We'd like that very much. Wouldn't we, Sybil?"

"Of course. And Mama can't object to us going out with Mr. Cobb to look after us, can she?"

"I'm sure she can," Mary said drily. "But she's half on our side anyway. We'll convince her."

"Kaylee? You coming?" Jayne asked, but she demurred, glad to have an excuse. Kaylee didn't fancy the idea of making awkward conversation with Sybil all day, plus being around Mary made her feel like she had something stuck in her teeth.

"I believe I'll go as well," Tom announced, earning a raised eyebrow from Mary. "If it's all right with you, m'lady." He tipped his hat to her. "It'll be a point in your favor with her ladyship, to have another man along."

Sybil laughed. "You're not wrong. Mary, let's go ask her now."

-ooo-

It was comforting, being in a place where no one knew him. Everyone going about their business, giving Thomas no more than a disinterested glance before their eyes flicked away again. Even if they could see what was in his heart, he thought, they probably wouldn't care.

Thomas knew he was no good; he'd always known it. He'd spent a great deal of time and effort trying to hide it from other people, but it always came out one way or another. It didn't matter what he did. He'd endured his mum's harsh words and his dad's fists without complaint until they finally threw him out, served Lord Grantham faithfully for years, suffered for his country. None of it signified. He was a crooked stick and always would be. But here, in a new and utterly foreign place, he could almost believe that it was possible to wash himself clean. He was tempted to stay on after he fenced the silver. Turn his back on the ship, on Mr. Carson and his poorly concealed contempt, on Lord Grantham and his big plans. It'd be easy enough to just melt into the crowd.

But no: Sarah wasn't the most trustworthy of friends, but she was the only one he had and he'd not let her down. _Even though she'll probably just turn around and offer her ladyship her share of the money_, Thomas thought with a smirk. He could just hear her now: _Oh, m'lady, I had a little put by... it's not much, but I want you to have it._ Sarah was forever coming up with schemes of that sort, giving with one hand while taking with the other. She'd jump at the chance to make herself look golden, while putting Lady Grantham in her debt.

Thomas was not so foolish. He'd fulfill his obligations, but he'd be gone as soon as he saw the right chance.

He'd been wandering for hours. At first he'd just taken things in. Banners printed with symbols whose meaning he couldn't guess at. People with skin of various hues, wearing strange clothes and jabbering away in foreign tongues, or some dialect of English that might as well be. After his narrow escape from Yorkshire and his time in the cramped environs of the spaceship, Thomas felt completely overwhelmed with the noise and light and alienness of it all. After a while, though, he started to look around for a likely place to get rid of his booty. He didn't quite know what he was looking for, but he figured it would make itself apparent at some point. He'd already gone through several small street markets; when he came upon a larger one encompassing several blocks, he slowed down and browsed each stall, getting an idea of what things cost.

Thomas had seldom been in such a crowd before, even in London. The narrow streets between the makeshift awnings were stuffed with people: cart-dragging grannies with hunched shoulders, young mothers hustling children and juggling shopping bags, sullen young toughs who jostled Thomas just a bit too hard as they passed. The crush of bodies demanded a slow, shuffling pace. Every couple of minutes they would have to part for one of the innumerable motorcycles that zig-zagged through, seemingly indifferent as to whether they ran someone down. In the end he was literally pushed into a table piled with tarnish-blackened silverware.

The woman standing behind the table grinned at him, showing a large gap between two incisors. "You want to buy?" She offered a dented tea service for his inspection. "Very nice. For you, _hen piányi_. Only ten credits. "

Thomas shook his head. "Sell. I want to sell." He hefted the suitcase he carried, allowing its contents to clank a little.

Understanding brightened the vendor's eyes. She couldn't have been more than fifty, but her hair was fluffy and white and she was stooped and gnarled like an old woman. She came around the table and grasped Thomas's wrist, pulling him into the shadows under her awning and through a door into a small, coldly lit room. She bade him sit on a hard sofa. "You wait here," she said. "I get my son." Then she disappeared.

Thomas's attention was drawn to the miniature movie screen in front of him. People had these in their houses here? How marvelous. With color and sound, too. Onscreen, a man and woman argued explosively in a language Thomas didn't know, finally ending their fight with a passionate kiss.

The woman was back in a matter of minutes, flanked by two men. One, eighteen or so, was apparently the son she'd spoken of. The other was white, thirtyish, wiry and mean-mouthed. Thomas felt a thrill of unease at there being two of them, and at their unfriendly looks. They came right up to him, invading his space, making him feel like he was pushing them back when he stood up.

"Whatcha got?" The older man demanded.

Thomas swallowed and put on an oily smile. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Thomas. And you are...?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "You can call me Chang."

Thomas believed the man's name was Chang like he believed John Bates was an innocent victim of circumstance. But he widened his smile and spread his hands, the picture of goodwill. "Mr. Chang, I'd like to offer you the chance to purchase some high-quality merchandise. Much better than that scrap outside." The boy's eyebrows drew together and Thomas could tell he'd blundered. "I only meant, surely you have higher-end inventory for your more upscale clientele," he said.

"Maybe we do and maybe we don't," the boy replied sullenly. He gestured to the case at Thomas's feet. "Let's see it."

Later, Thomas would pinpoint this moment as the one when things truly began to go pear-shaped. He sat down on the sofa and leaned over to spread the case open on the floor in front of him. Next thing he knew, he was pinned flat on his back with the boy's boot on his throat and hostile black eyes pouring vitriol down on him. "Here now," he choked, unable to manage anything else.

Chang came into his field of vision. "I'll just have a _kànjiàn_ at your case here, Thomas. Then you can run along." The boy laughed. _Why is that funny?_ Thomas wondered in alarm. He heard Chang sorting through the silver in the case, making sounds of admiration at its weight and sheen. "What service you in, Thomas?" the man asked mildly, as if making idle conversation.

Thomas's mind raced, but it wasn't up to the challenge of supplying a convincing lie. Probably had something to do with his oxygen being half cut off. "Army medical corps," he finally said.

"Is that a fact."

"My last posting was at Downton." He figured that was vague enough to be safe.

"How many _nánrén _did you kill at _Downton_?" The boy hurled down at him. He'd let up some on Thomas's neck, but now he mashed his foot down again.

Thomas gasped. Bright and dark flashes exploded behind his eyes. "Please," he coughed.

"Ease up, Johnny," Chang said, again in that mild tone. "We're not big fans of the military in this house," he explained.

Thomas didn't have the breath to tell them that they had the wrong man. He doubted Johnny, with his swagger and wounded eyes, would have cared anyway.

Chang snapped the case shut. "Good news, Thomas. We'll take it all." Johnny removed his boot and Thomas sat up, rubbing his throat gratefully.

After a minute Chang's words registered on him. "What about... what about my money?" He stammered.

"I don't remember discussing money. Johnny, did I say anything about money?" The boy shook his head. Cruel amusement danced in his eyes. The two men hauled Thomas to his feet and propelled him, still sputtering, towards the door.

"That's all I've got, you bastards!" He raged, even though he knew it was futile. He felt nauseous. Another plan gone wrong, just like always. "I'll have the police here, see if I don't!"

They'd just gotten him out the door. Johnny hissed into his ear: "That's a bad idea." Then he tripped him. Thomas sprawled forward onto the pavement. Before he could get his wind back, Johnny's boot in his ribs knocked it out of him again.

"Gorrammit, Thomas, that was the wrong thing to say," Chang told him, a little regretfully. Then he joined in.

They were still underneath the awning but within sight of the thoroughfare. Thomas could see people's feet shuffling by in front of him. _Why doesn't someone do something?_ He thought as pain exploded in his side, his back, his shoulder. Surely they saw what was happening. That was the last thought he had before one of them kicked him in the head and everything went dark.

-ooo-

_She's too soft on those girls_, Sarah O'Brien thought after Lady Mary and Lady Sybil skipped off to do who knew what with the chauffeur and that gun-toting baboon. _She'll come to grief over it one day._ In fact, Lady Grantham already had. If the Crawley sisters had been more accustomed to discipline, they'd have been where they should on the night the Reavers came and they'd be three instead of two.

But of course it wasn't Sarah's place to say anything. She might make an oblique suggestion that night when she helped her ladyship to undress, but no more than that. It always chafed her, to see so clearly the likely results of the decisions taken by her so-called betters without having any power to directly affect them. _But such is the lot of a lady's maid_.

The flight from Downton and their present living conditions had not been unduly hard on Sarah. The quarters were close but then there'd not been much privacy at Downton either. She did feel a pang whenever she looked at Lady Cora's haggard face: it wasn't right that a daughter should die before her mother, especially in such grisly fashion. The closest things to children Sarah had had were her sister's, Alfie and Sophie and Jake, but there was no one else left down there who she would weep over. Her brother was dead, and poor Andrew Lang was probably better off going to his reward. She tried not to dwell on it. Instead she threw herself into the tasks at hand, smoothing her lady's way where she could.

At present she was standing off to the side, waiting for Mrs. Hughes to call the servants to luncheon. The food here - tasteless and not plentiful - was another minor hardship to bear. Apparently their stop in port would remedy the situation some, which Sarah was glad of. To distract herself from her growling stomach, she listened closely to Cora and Violet's talk. You never knew when you'd pick up a useful bit of information.

Old Lady Grantham was still amazed that Cora had let her daughters venture out into the city. "It's all so unpredictable," she was saying. "I half expect the ship to be swarmed by Morlocks again before we can get off the ground."

"I don't think the savages ever come here," Cora said. "From what the crew have said, this is a fairly civilized place, though nothing compared to some of the worlds where we might live."

Violet lowered her voice, but Sarah's hearing was good. "Exactly how much jewelry did you manage to bring along, dear? Will you truly be able to make a start with only that?"

"It depends on how much Robert is able to get for it. I really don't know."

"It is such a wretched thing to have to worry about money," Violet sighed.

Sarah wondered if Lord Grantham would really be able to manage the trick of setting the family up in a nice place. If he were, she had no doubt that his wife would engineer their entry into society with aplomb, and be the happier for seeing her remaining daughters securely settled. Before long things would go on much as they ever had, and there was something to be said for that. Thomas might have a place in the Grantham house then, and Sarah definitely would.

However, there was a part of her that was curious about the rim worlds she'd heard talk of. They sounded wild and dusty and uncomfortable, but that was hardly a deterrent. Sarah had to admit there was a certain charm to the notion of going somewhere barely settled, where there was none of the intrigue and backbiting of the old drawing rooms and servants' halls. It would be almost like retirement. She imagined her ladyship walking out over wide golden fields, a tranquil smile on her face.

As for herself, she didn't need much. A cottage. A room, even. Once Thomas brought her the money from the silver, perhaps she could offer her help.

In answer to Violet, Lady Cora shook her head ruefully. "It is rather a shock. We haven't had any of that kind of trouble since we married." She spoke in a similarly quiet voice, and now she lowered it to a murmur. "I feel terrible, but I just don't know how large a household we'll be able to maintain."

O'Brien did not look at them, but she could feel Old Lady Grantham's eyes flick over at her. "O'Brien, would you go and fetch the grey shawl from my room. It's rather chilly in here with the door open."

"Right away, m'lady." Sarah could tell that the dowager Countess just wanted to get her out of earshot while they talked about how many servants they'd keep. She walked across the hold and through the infirmary into the passenger corridor, where that strange girl - Rain or River or something equally heathenish - was coming out of her cabin. She steeled herself for an uncomfortable encounter, but the girl only nodded distractedly and walked off toward the hold.

By the time she returned with the shawl, Lord Grantham was back and grizzling about how he'd had to spend part of their earnings on provisions for the rest of the journey. "It's only fair, I suppose. With all these extra passengers, Captain Reynolds' supplies have been run through rather quickly," he conceded. "But things are dashed expensive out there, Cora. You've no idea." He shut up about money as soon as he caught sight of O'Brien, and looked around the hold. "Where are the girls?"

Cora looked down at her lap. "Well, as it turns out..."

Just then Mrs. Hughes called down that lunch was ready for the servants. Sarah thought that a meal had never been so ill-timed.

-ooo-

Mary soon regretted leaving the ship. As Papa had warned, the city was filthy and full of unnerving people, all heaving and jostling. Their party had already made several turns through the narrow, twisting streets, and she knew that without Mr. Cobb to guide them they would become lost in moments. And never mind asking him to accompany them back now, when it was all she could do to keep him in sight. He strode ahead with hardly a backward glance to make sure they were still with him, and if he noticed Mary glaring daggers through his back he didn't show it.

_Thank heavens Branson's along to look after me and Sybil,_ Mary thought. The former chauffeur brought up the rear as they picked their way over uneven pavements, nearly getting run over on several occasions by buzzing, darting motorcycles. "Try and walk single file, m'lady!" Branson called up to her - if she didn't know better, she'd say he snapped - after the fourth close call. "That way they can get around you better."

Behind her, Sybil said something to Branson about not using their titles. She sounded rather nervous, Mary thought: _Does she think someone's going to kidnap us for ransom?_ Mary looked at the ragged clothes and tired, smudged faces surrounding them: maybe it wasn't such a farfetched idea. Though after ten days of duress, she and Sybil didn't exactly look like prizes themselves. The only dress Sybil had of her own was the one she'd been wearing at dinner that last night at home, so her wardrobe was jumbled together from whatever items out of Edith's suitcase she could fit into. Mary was a little better turned out, but her clothes looked decidedly wilted after being worn so much more often than usual and not being properly cared for. As for her hair... well, Anna was a wonder, but even she couldn't work miracles.

Jayne stopped so abruptly that Mary almost ran into him. "Here we are." He opened a nondescript door and led them inside, where it was so dark after the glare of the street that they had to stand blinking until their eyes adjusted.

Branson was the first of the three to get his bearings. "A pub?" He exclaimed in disbelief. "You've brought them to a pub." He stood between and a little behind the women, a hand hovering protectively at each of their elbows.

Jayne shrugged. "C'mon, live a little." He led the way to a free table against the far wall.

Branson looked as if he had more to say, but Sybil had already plunged across the room after their guide, leaving him and Mary no option but to follow.

Mary had never been inside a public house before. She looked around curiously: now it did not seem so very dark, though still much dimmer than outside. Wall sconces threw reluctant smoky light in blue and fuschia, but most of the illumination came from screens mounted about the room, each one flickering with a different scene. The one opposite Mary showed a Chinese woman wearing a severe grey suit, who spoke seriously and soundlessly to her audience as brightly colored type inched across the screen underneath her torso.

Jayne went to the bar and carried back four glasses by their handles, full of what looked like semi-opaque ale. "_Gānbēi_," he muttered, and lifted his cup in a careless toast before draining it. Mary sniffed at hers and sipped a bit, then a bit more: it wasn't bad, actually. Rather sweet. "I know this ain't what you're used to," he said, gesturing at the room, its strange juxtaposition of squalid and glossy.

Mary turned a brittle smile on him. "None of what's been happening lately is what I'm used to, Mr. Cobb." She had to raise her voice to be heard above the music, a heavy, repetitive beat with a woman's voice ululating thinly over it. "But thank you for taking us out. It's been so interesting."

"Call me Jayne. We don't stand on ceremony around here, you might've noticed."

She dropped her eyes. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm afraid ceremony _is _what I'm used to." She glanced up at the screen: the woman had been replaced by a row of people wearing oversized animal costumes and using straws to siphon up the contents of what looked like fishbowls, apparently in a competition to see who could do it the fastest. "But perhaps you can tell me what they're up to," she said, waving a hand at their antics.

Empty glasses accumulated on the table, most of them Jayne's, though alcohol seemed to have little effect on the man. In an hour's time Mary had sipped her way through almost two drinks and she was beginning to feel a bit loose. She suppressed an urge to ask Jayne how a man had come by such a name: of course that would be terribly rude. The ale - or whatever it was - seemed as strong as liquor, maybe stronger. She probably shouldn't have any more.

Across the table, Sybil's color was high and she was chattering away to Branson while her eyes darted around the room. What Sybil found to talk about with the chauffeur was a mystery to Mary, but he seemed not to mind, and unlike the rest of them he'd barely touched his drink. Dear Branson. He'd been a brick to come with them.

Something about the way he was looking at Sybil set off an alarm in Mary's mind, and she remembered the scent of collusion she'd caught on the catwalk. _They really are thick as thieves_, she thought, frowning. _But he couldn't possibly. Could he? Could _she_? _Mary honestly wasn't sure. It seemed so ridiculous, but Sybil never had put much stock in the traditional way of doing things. And Branson... well, he'd never been overtly disrespectful, but he _was _a socialist.

She was distracted by the entrance door bursting open to admit several large men in uniforms. Beside her, Jayne stiffened, his hand going to his holster and caressing his sidearm as if for reassurance. If he'd been drunk, he did not look like it now. _Why would he be worried?_ Mary wondered. The uniformed men were plainly policemen of some kind. _We haven't done anything wrong._

The officers ran straight back towards the bar, apparently on a mission, and Mary felt Jayne relax a little. The patrons slouched there were rather pathetic specimens - they were, after all, skulking in a pub in the middle of the day - but none of them looked like criminals. The man the officers grabbed and pushed to lie facedown on the floor seemed as nonplussed as the others.

"Bryan Van Hardwick, you are bound by law for the crime of assault," the leader announced in a ringing voice.

The arrested man began to struggle. "What? I don't know what you're talking about!" he cried weakly, but it made no difference: his hands were bound behind him and he was pulled roughly to his feet. He continued to protest as he was manhandled toward the door. "I haven't _done _anything, gorrammit - I swear! No, don't take me away! I'll do anything you want, _please_!" He actually began to weep, and Mary looked away in mingled pity and disgust.

Branson and Sybil, sitting with their backs to the door, had turned in their seats at the noise. Now they exchanged fearful glances. Mary couldn't tell for sure in the sickly bluish light, but she thought they looked pale.

The door thumped shut behind the main contingent of policemen and their charge, but two of the men stayed behind to go around and speak to the other customers. "Let's go. Now," Jayne muttered. They all jumped up. "Out the back," the mercenary snapped, grabbing Mary's arm rather more roughly than she felt necessary. He steered her down a narrow corridor she hadn't noticed before and out a steel door into brilliant white sunlight, then hustled her through the grimy concrete alley, ignoring her protests, until they'd turned into the road and joined the flow of foot traffic.

"Sybil!" Mary cried over her shoulder. "Branson!"

"They'll catch up," Jayne growled. But when they finally paused to catch their breath, Sybil and Branson were nowhere to be seen.

-to be continued-


End file.
